


Configuration

by PhilipJFright



Category: Flatland - Edwin A. Abbott, Gravity Falls
Genre: Child Abuse, Classism, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eugenics Mentioned, Gen, M/M, Medical Trauma, like it's Flatland you guys know what to expect, not the first to do a flatland based bill backstory and won't be the last, nothing graphic but it seemed important to put the warning there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:54:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22625911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhilipJFright/pseuds/PhilipJFright
Summary: It was often said that the Cipher family was cursed, and the world would end before any Cipher would pull themselves up from the class of an Equilateral.It's remarkable how close that prediction was.
Relationships: Bill Cipher/Kryptos, again. still in the 'as much as a 'thing' as you can be with bill' category, but these awful shapes care about each other as much as they can care about anyone, this still isn't a ship fic but at this point it seems disingenuous to not tag this as
Comments: 78
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

The Cipher family line had been stuck for a very long time.

Albert Cipher had grown up with stories of his great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather, Oliver Cipher, where the family line truly started. He was the first, and last, Cipher to make something of himself, to pull himself out of his lowly Isosceles class, ascend to the respectable ranks of an Equilateral. Some credit was to be given to his birth parents of course, an anonymous but presumably near-intelligent Isosceles soldier, to have had an Equilateral son, and his presumably Regular wife, but they were rarely included in the story. A passing mention-- that the soldier must have been at least 58 degrees, any less intelligent would have been preposterous, and that his wife must have been of decently good breeding, for an Isosceles-born girl, at least, but they were generally disregarded in the retelling. It felt wrong to acknowledge them further-- that was what had gotten them into all this trouble in the first place.

It was Oliver’s mother who started this mess, it had to have been, a Shape never would have cowed to misguided pity so easily. A Shape would have never been so stupid to have disobeyed strict orders from the Chief Circle himself, at least not a Regular shape, and Oliver Cipher’s father, his adopted one, was most certainly Regular.

Nobody could quite remember how the woman let it slip, but somehow or another, the circumstances of Oliver’s birth were made apparent to him and, (under the Line’s sentimental influence, no doubt,) he attempted contact with his birth parents. 

He realized how foolish his endeavor was within a week, or at least that’s what the family always told Albert, but the damage had been done. Whether it had been spending time in the Isosceles district or simply being made aware of his unfortunate heritage, something in the family line stunted then and there. Oliver’s first child was a Line, which was a pity, and the family did not have the influence to marry her off to a Square. They, of course, had another child, and his first son was an Equilateral. A shame, but no Equilateral is guaranteed a Square child, and an Equilateral could, bless the Laws of Configuration, always try again. 

When none of Oliver Cipher’s nine children ascended a class, gained a side, he sheepishly blamed his bad breeding, and his father angrily blamed Oliver’s mother for making him aware of it. When none of his 26 grandchildren gained a side, he wondered if it went beyond bad breeding, if the Laws of Configuration were punishing his family for making an ascended Isosceles aware of his adoption.

When none of his 84 great-grandchildren ascended to the Square class, Oliver Cipher declared it a curse and forbade any mention of his parents, either pair of them, until his death.

Albert’s generation had suffered the worst version of the curse yet-- in a family of 256 cousins, and 11 siblings, he was the only Shape of the bunch. None of his cousins or sisters were married off to anyone of any importance, and, even if they had been, he knew that he and his future children were the last chance the Cipher family had of their name ever escaping the lowly rank of the acute rabble.

When he was younger, this pressure seemed almost inviting. He was the only Shape in an army of frivolous Lines-- that had to mean something, and it wasn’t possible for the curse to get any worse than this. He married a Line whose family was facing a similar issue, Dorabella, the eldest daughter of the Affine family, and excitedly waited for the birth of their first child. He would be a Square. He would be a Square and Albert Leon Cipher, after generations of rotten luck, would be the next Cipher to make something of himself, his _son_ would make something of himself.

William Bedford Cipher was born with an Irregularity of .5 degrees. 


	2. Chapter 2

William Cipher was not the only unfortunate birth that province experienced that year.

To be frank, having a Square was the last thing on Clarence Kryptos’ mind. The idea would have been repulsive to him, in fact.

The Kryptos family was well off, all things considered. There were members, cousins, all the way to the lower Polygonal classes— not Circles, certainly, but well on their way. Clarence himself, of course, was only a Square, but family connections were family connections and he had managed to secure a great number of high-profile cases defending Heptagons and Octagons and classes even higher than that, mainly rich young sons of esteemed nobles who had made mistakes that could easily be explained away to the right audience. Easy cases to win, but Clarence didn’t mind the lack of challenge, any chance to get on the good side of someone who could give him a leg up more than made up for the lack of stimulation his job provided. He was well-liked amongst the upper-class and he quite enjoyed their approval.

A Pentagonal son was all he needed to stay steady in climbing the social ladder.

His marriage had been a well organized one— the Line had been from a perfectly Regular family, with a Pentagonal brother and a few cousins up to the rank of Heptagons. Her father was, of course, a Square, but he was an esteemed law professor, and a Square who was allowed to teach was certainly nothing to scoff at.

He was, of course, not in the delivery room when the child was born, but he was eager to lay his eye on the boy.

When he was called into the delivery room and the child was not there, simply his wife, looking tired and confused, he sighed, turning to the doctor and solemnly asking if his first child was a Line.

The Pentagon cleared his throat and asked Clarence to sit down.

“… An Irregular, then.”

“No, sir, we’d be able to explain that, tragic as it would be. We are still examining the child, but it appears you… well, we’ll get the least confusing part out of the way first. Your child is a Square.”

“That isn’t possible.” The answer was immediate. “My family is perfectly Regular, my _wife’s_ family is perfectly Regular, her father is a professor and I have won cases for _Polygons_. You must have mixed my son up with some Equilateral’s, because if you’re implying we somehow aren’t _intelligent_ enough to have—“

“I would ask you _mind your configuration_ and not insult the intelligence of a Pentagon, Kryptos,” the doctor snapped, and the Square immediately silenced himself. “We have not made a mistake, we are talking about your child.”

“Of course, I— I apologize for the slip, I— I’m afraid I just don’t understand. He should be a Pentagon, at the least. It should have been guaranteed…”

The doctor’s eye softened and he sighed. “Of course. To be frank, we don’t understand either, and beyond that, we have had him examined by a Circle, who seems perplexed as well.”

“The Circles are confused by the boy?”

It was the first time his wife had spoken, and normally, she never would have entered a conversation between her husband and another Shape, especially one who outranked the both of them, but Clarence had forgotten himself as well and he could hardly scold his wife for doing the same.

The Pentagon seemed to feel the same way, and he answered, still looking at Clarence. “Unfortunately. On top of being a Square, his frame is… tilted. Not Irregular, mind you, he has perfect ninety degree angles and all sides are perfectly even, if it weren’t for the placement of his limbs and his mouth, he would be a fine specimen of a Square, but… instead of both legs on one side, and an arm on each side of the body, as the Laws of Compensation intended, the child has both an arm and a leg on one side, and the same on another, with an angle in between. He almost looks like a Rhombus.”

Clarence blinked. “A Rhombus? So the child is a line, then. Just a— a rather thick one?”

“No, the child is a Square, his limb placement is simply unheard of.”

He tried to imagine what his son looked like, and found that he couldn’t. Besides, another detail of what the doctor had said was standing out to him.

“You mentioned a mouth,” the lawyer asked, sounding drained, finally sitting. “What’s wrong with his mouth?”

“He… has one,” said the Pentagon, unable to muster any tact. “Somehow, repulsive as it seems, his mouth and eye are not the same organ. He has both at once.”

There was a long period of complete quiet that lay over the delivery room. His wife, safely still in bed, had even neglected her Peace Cry in the solemnity, and neither Shape could truly hold it against her.

“The Circles will be putting it out of its misery, I assume,” Kryptos finally said, breaking the silence.

“… No, Mr. Kryptos. He is not Irregular, so he is not a threat to the public. The Circles have decided that the… charitable thing to do seems to be to allow the child to live. His angles are perfect, so it is possible his mind is intact. Should he fail to fulfill his duties as a Lawyer, the possibility of examination may come up again, but… he is not technically Irregular. He is simply an… abnormal Square.”

“And we’re expected to raise the boy.” Clarence Kryptos made no attempt to hide the bitterness in his voice.

“I’m sorry. I would not wish this on you and the Circles asked me to express their pity, and there is always the possibility he will drift more solidly into the realm of Irregularity, in which case an inspection may be possible, but for now… Yes. They would like you to raise the boy.”

There was another long silence, and when the doctor finally broke it to ask whether or not they would like to see their son, it was less of a question, and more of a tired warning.

And when Clarence Kryptos finally held his son for the first time, saw the child stare at him curiously and give him a gummy grin all at once, he could physically feel himself fall off his carefully constructed ladder into the abyss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every character I write gets a birth defect and some future medical trauma, that's just my Brand.
> 
> Also, congrats to Bill and Kryptos, ten minutes old and already destroying your family lines! Your future selves would be so proud.


	3. Chapter 3

William ended up speaking much earlier than expected, and from the moment he shrieked his first word, (a teary “No!” at the doctor’s office,) everyone around him had a lot of trouble getting him to shut up.

At first it was just babbling, screaming, simple words and basic sentences about wanting food, wanting to go outside, not wanting his treatments, needing to sleep. It was incessant but, the doctors said, normal for a child, and impressive, even, for an Irregular.

Then he reached the terrible twos.

Dorabella had assumed that her son, being an Irregular, would likely not be very bright, but even though he asked questions near-constantly, she didn’t get that impression. His constant stream of questions, instead, only seemed proof that he had a brain somewhere in that 59.5 degree angled head of his, albeit a very strange one. 

There was never much she could do to answer his interrogations, and the nature of the questions were bizarre. She could explain, to a degree, why Isosceles were fit to be warriors, and she was relieved when William, at least at first, accepted their sharp edges as an answer. When it came to explaining why Equilaterals made the best merchants, though, she had more trouble, and by age four, he began to challenge her— if all Equilaterals were of equal intelligence, then why didn’t his father own his own shop? Didn’t that mean that he wasn’t as smart as his boss, didn’t that mean some Triangles were _smarter_ than his boss? And if some Squares were lawyers and some were paralegals and some had trouble passing the bar and all of them had ninety degree angles, didn’t that mean that _something_ other than just being ninety degrees made you smart? And was a Square who couldn’t pass the bar really smarter than a Triangle who made his millions? And maybe some Triangles who were bad at selling stuff were just in the wrong business, maybe they’d make better doctors or lawmakers or—

That was the first time William was locked in his room for the day.

This would become a running theme in their household, with William asking questions for hours on end and his mother ignoring them until he asked something especially heinous. She chose to view it as a sort of understanding— by the tenth time she assumed that even he understood the consequences to bothering her incessantly, and she assumed that his stubbornness was his way of saying that he didn’t want to deal with her for the day, which was fine by her, since she didn’t particularly want to deal with him either. 

Eventually, by age five, Dorabella and her son had reached an impasse. William had realized by then that his mother didn’t have answers to any of the questions he had and that continuing to ask would only lead to annoyance on her end, at best, and Dorabella had realized that not even the Circles would be able to shut this boy up when he had an idea about something. He continued to push her buttons, anyway— the days where she would snap at him, send him to his room or even break her Peace Cry to scream at him were at least energetic, as opposed to the boring days where she would float about the house and try very hard to ignore him. 

And besides, when he was locked in his room he could do whatever he wanted, yell as loud as he liked and stomp his feet and jump on his bed, because on those days, she was usually too exhausted by her first scolding to bother giving him another one.

The only time William was ever quiet were treatment days, and Dorabella was never sure whether to welcome those occasions or dread them.

Oh, he was a hellion in the doctor’s office, certainly, screaming and clawing and biting at the doctors, squirming out of their grasps and screeching until the walls shook, but she never had to deal with that. She was never allowed in the room with her son, after all, and she never asked to be, she would just hear the reports on William’s behavior after, and would apologize as much as needed and then take him home. 

But the rest of the day was always hushed. While she couldn’t pretend to understand what the exact treatments consisted of, (occasionally, her son would mention a table, or a scalpel, a brace or a belt, and she would, more gently than normal, chide him and ask him not to say any more,) she knew they were intense, and wasn’t surprised that even William couldn’t stay energetic after all of that. 

He would usually sit silently in the kitchen when they got back from the hospital, occasionally rubbing at his bandaged side, trying very hard not to fall asleep into his lunch, and he never even mustered up the strength to argue when his mother told him he should get some rest. She always set aside his favorite foods for post-treatment meals, and when she set him down for his nap, she made sure to keep his door open just a crack, in case the pain became too much and he needed something. 

But eventually, he began to argue about treatment days, to kick and scream not only in the doctor’s office, but on the way there _and_ on the way back. Their one day of quiet was over, and Dorabella was done.

Albert had to get special permission to allow his son to visit him at work— not only because of William’s Irregularity, but because he didn’t own the place. His boss wasn’t fond of the idea at first, but after Albert’s desperate explanations of a stressed out, increasingly irate wife and how deadly that could be, the other Equilateral sighed and allowed the boy to shadow his father.

William flourished in the shop at first— Albert was surprised to find that, even at such a young age, he had a way with words and a knack for business, and customers were often fondly amused by the loud, excitable child who would occasionally pop up from behind the counter and gleefully try to rip them off. (At the very least, they were charmed so long as they weren’t completely up to snuff on their Sight Recognition.)

Albert, to his credit, was happy to show his son the ropes. True, William would never be allowed to marry, would never have children, and Albert wouldn’t even pretend to be alright with that, but if he was going to be the last Cipher, then the family might as well go out on the best damn salesman anyone had ever seen. 

This idea fell apart quickly.

It wasn’t that William was bad as a salesman, he had managed to push wares and haggle up prices by age six, it was just that his customer service was absolutely abysmal. No matter how frequently Albert reminded him to be respectful of his betters, the boy couldn’t seem to resist asking inane questions of Hexagons and making cracks at Octagons. A few, thank the Circles, took it in stride, especially when his beleaguered father explained that the boy was an Irregular and certainly would not be acting this way if he had the mental capacity to understand better, but just enough of them complained to his higher ups, and Albert couldn’t really blame them. Albert was faced with a choice— William could go, or both of them could.

That night, William got the novelty of his father being the one to lock him in his room. 

Keeping him in the shop was no longer sustainable, and keeping him at home had never worked, so, when William was eight, they appealed to the higher-ups, cited the infinitesimal nature of his Irregularity and provided documentation of his ongoing treatment.

After weeks and weeks of bureaucratic back and forth and tear-filled inspections, William was judged to be just within the acceptable range of Irregularity to be allowed in public.

Both of his parents were there to see him off on his first day of school, and they almost-- almost-- didn't seem to mind how much he had to talk about when he got back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually very excited to write about school for Bill, there's a scene in about two chapters that I've had in my head for about half a year that I've been itching to put on paper. Wish I had a better ending line for this chapter, but it's fine.  
> Also! In case anyone is curious as to what Bill and Kryptos' parents look like, I actually drew them a while back! Caution that if you do go poking around my Deviantart though, you'll probably stumble across spoilers for this fic.  
> https://www.deviantart.com/cutenerdybean23/art/social-climbers-816357505  
> (also I made this account about eight years ago, apologies for the dumb username)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was never quite clear on whether the Specimens were actually teaching classes of Equilaterals or whether they were basically lab rats, so I went for a kind of horrible hybrid. It's probably a bit of a liberty, but it was a liberty I liked taking, so it's fine.  
> Also, like, I know A. Square mentions that Specimens don't get fed in the nicer schools, and the cheaper ones keep them as long as possible, but... that never quite made sense to me. I get that it's a metaphor for outdated equipment for disadvantaged kids, but in terms of actual economy, Specimens don't "cost" anything except their room and board, so the "cheaper" option seems to be a constant cycle, so we're going with that. (I feel like I have to take a shower after writing that, god Flatland is gross.)

The appeal of school died pretty quickly.

It was great at first— there wasn’t any place on the Plane that encouraged questions, but at the very least, school would occasionally attempt to answer them.

His first teacher, actually, _almost_ encouraged questions. While the poor figure, (an astoundingly thin Irregular Isosceles named Alan,) seemed desperately exhausted and incredibly frail, he had a decently bright eye, despite his worn edges, and an excitable voice, and the minute William entered the class, he grinned, and sat him at the front. At their lunch break, when William approached him and asked how the hell an Irregular Isosceles had managed to get a teaching position, (“I mean, didn’t they think you were too dumb? You talk ‘em into it? ‘Cause usually when I talk, people just think I’m dumber.”) he actually laughed.

“Oh, you’ll see a lot of us around. Don’t think there’s an adult in here that’s Regular, other than the Headmaster.”

The child’s eye widened, and he leaned over the shape’s desk. “… You’re all Irregular?”

“Mm-hmm. But it’s not…” he trailed off, thinking, and his grin faded slightly. “… I know how encouraging that sounds, but…”

“There’s a catch, huh? Figures.”

He snorted. “Already gotten used to that?”

William shrugged. “I guess. Everything’s got a catch.”

“Guess it’s good to figure that out early.” Alan hummed. “I’m not sure how much I can tell you about this catch, though, sorry. I’d like to stay working here as long as I can, y’know? Don’t wanna piss off anyone earlier than I have to.”

William’s eye dulled, and he slumped over.  


“Oh.”

“Sorry. You seem smart, though, I think you’ll figure it out soon.”

He brightened slightly. “… So it’s like a riddle?”

He smiled sadly. “Sure, you can think of it that way.”

“And you’ll tell me when I get it, right?”

“You won’t need me to, you’ll know it when you know it.”

* * *

The next few weeks were spent trying to figure out this “riddle.” He stayed in the classroom at lunch— the other children had apparently been warned about the Irregular in their class and were afraid to approach him, and while his initial attempts to claim certain parts of the lunchroom for himself were successful, it ended up being boring to rule a lunch table alone, no matter how many pens he flung at the other students. Running around the field instead of eating had also lost its appeal— he was beginning to get used to fresh air, and the thrill of just being outside was fading. Besides, on post-treatment days, the effort to even leave the classroom didn’t seem worth it.

Alan didn’t go anywhere at lunch, either, which was good, because William would have been bored out of his mind otherwise. But Alan made for decent company, and seemed excited to have an inquisitive student. It seemed to revitalize him, almost— it was obvious the curriculum was dulling more than just his edges and William knew from experience how exhausting it was to be poked and prodded at. But he was energetic anytime William came up with another puzzle for him, and when he didn’t know the answer to something, he admitted it and encouraged him to keep digging.

It took a few days of staying in the room with him for William to realize that the Shape never actually ate— when he asked about it, though, Alan had changed the subject quickly, and the one time he offered the teacher a few bites of his own lunch, the Isosceles looked as if he had been struck and told him to please, please never offer him food again.

He put the food back in his desk and filed that away as an obvious clue.

* * *

His next clue came on a treatment day. He was dropped off late in the morning, and, despite his best efforts, he ended up falling asleep at his desk. When he woke up, they were midway into lunch, and Alan had been at his desk, recuperating from the morning’s feeling session.

The first words out of William’s mouth were a groggy, “… Why didn’t you wake me up?” and the teacher had started at his desk, wincing.

“Seemed like you could use the sleep.”

He wasn’t wrong. Even after his impromptu nap, the Equilateral felt drained, and was extremely tempted to just lay down again and continue sleeping. “… How did you deal with ‘em?”

“Deal with what?”

“Treatments. They just keep getting worse. I used t’be able to stay awake after, but—” he yawned and rubbed his eye, cutting off his thought.

Alan looked sympathetic, but shook his head. “Sorry pal, can’t really help you there.”

“What, you don’t remember what you did?”

“Never went in for treatments,” the Irregular shrugged, leaning back in his chair. He was sitting more than normal, in the past week— actually, William couldn’t think of the last time he’d seen the man standing. “There wasn’t much of a point.”

That didn’t quite seem right to William, he was pretty sure that any Irregular that wasn’t a hopeless case was subjected to some form of treatment, but he was far too tired to question it. He remembered to file that away as a potential clue, though, before drifting off again.

He figured it out by clue three.

* * *

“… You ever gonna sharpen those things?”

“Sharpen what things, William?” Alan had been grading papers and looked up tiredly. He always seemed tired lately, moreso than usual.

“Your edges. It’s getting harder to feel anything, is the Board gonna sharpen you up?”

Alan’s face fell, but he ignored the question and avoided William’s gaze, which was unusual for him. “You seemed fine this morning. What degree was my topmost vertices again? Three point seven….” He motioned his hand for the boy to continue and William groaned.

“Nine five three two six five zero….” He recited tiredly, before bursting into a fit of giggles. “Still can’t believe Charles thought it was _four_. I mean, sure, three point eight’s wrong but at least Noah was close, but _four_? Maybe if Charles kept his hand outta his mouth he’d get some feeling back in his fing-”

“William.” The tone was firm, but not cruel.

“I’m just saying! You’d think for a bunch of—”

_“William.”_ A bit sharper now. Usually this would be an invitation to try and push someone’s buttons more, but William backed down slightly.

“… You’d think a bunch Regulars would know more about _angle measurements._ ” He finished lamely.

“S’not life or death for them. We have an upper hand here, they don’t usually have to think about decimals.”

William noticed, for the first time, that Alan’s hands were shaking as he flipped through his papers. Had they always done that? And had his eye always looked so dull? Had he always slumped so far into his seat, had his voice always sounded so hoarse, had—

“When are they gonna sharpen you up?” He hadn’t meant for the note of desperation to edge into his voice.

He looked at the boy, finally, and set down his papers. “I told you you’d solve it.”

“… You didn’t pass inspection.” It wasn’t a question.

“Don’t worry, it isn’t recent. You can’t be a Specimen if you pass.” His eye furrowed sadly. “You’ll probably be getting a new Specimen soon, hopefully their angles are a little sharper. Might last longer.”

“And you’re _okay_ with this?”

And, like always, Alan answered honestly. “‘Course not, but I get to live longer if I don’t complain about it too much. Three months isn’t bad, honestly. Made myself easy enough to deal with that I was considered a ‘worthwhile investment,’ sometimes that’s the best thing to be. Shutting up has its advantages, you know. Even if you don’t remember anything else I told you, try and keep that in mind.” 

“… Why don’t you ever eat lunch?” William finally asked, voice hoarse.

Alan managed a dry chuckle. “Budget cuts.” 

The Equilateral just stared at him from his desk, unsure of what to say for once in his life.

“… You’ll get used to it,” Alan said, in a tone that was probably supposed to be encouraging. “The cycle’s usually quicker. No clue what the next Specimen’ll be like, but I’m sure you’ll learn a lot from him.” He smiled softly.

“Why’re you only telling me this now?”

“I’ve been lasting as long as I can, but I don’t think I’ve got much juice left in me, kid. They get mad at me for blabbing to a student now, I haven’t cut my time by a lot.”

William stared at him a little longer, before taking his lunch from his desk and starting out the room.

“Where’re you going?”

The Equilateral stopped in the doorframe, but couldn’t actually meet the older Triangle’s gaze, practically glaring a hole into the floor. “Lunch room. I figured out the riddle. I don’t haveta eat here anymore.” He was trying very, very hard to keep his voice flat.

Alan cleared his throat, nodding. “… Right.”

“Right.”

“… William, I just wanted to say, it— well, I was glad to see an Irregular allowed to—”

The boy left before he could finish his thought.

* * *

The next Specimen didn’t like questions very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A. Square really skimmed over the fact that these middle schoolers had to watch their teachers starve to death every month, huh?
> 
> EDIT: did a few doodles base don this chapter  
> https://www.deviantart.com/cutenerdybean23/art/Configuration-Chapter-4-Doodles-830928268


	5. Chapter 5

Nobody knew what to do with Andrew Kryptos, and he was beginning to get used to that.

From the minute they filled out the paperwork to get his birth certificate, there was a pause. There were a few issues.

The first problem arose with trying to determine his Regularity. Now, obviously he was not Irregular, he had ninety degree angles and four even sides, but it seemed like a lie to mark him as Regular, because he wasn’t exactly that either. The doctor had instead recommended that they write, on the back, “Abnormal,” and leave the field blank. Clarence had simply crossed out the question.

Checking in his shape was even more confusing.

There was one document given to Squares for their children, and it, too, had limited options. First was for a Pentagon, of course, but there was also a place to mark if you had the displeasure of reverting a class and ended up with a Triangle. It happened every so often, when there was an unaccounted Irregularity somewhere in the family line.

A Square’s family line almost never stagnated. It wasn’t worth the ink to include it as an option. Again, Clarence had simply crossed out the question.

So, in the eyes of the Law, Andrew James Kryptos was… nothing, really. He could not be designated as Regular or Irregular, and there was no legal name for the circumstances of his birth. He was not a Pentagon, or a Triangle, or a true, official Square.

From an early age, he became very good at fitting into that invisible role.

* * *

His father bounced back from his son’s birth at an impressive speed— he had made connections, after all, and they knew that whatever had gone wrong in his son’s birth couldn’t possibly have been his fault. His father-in-law suddenly recalled, after his grandson was born, a rumor about a distant cousin on his wife’s side of the family that had been born with a slight Irregularity, and that must have been the cause of all this trouble. 

Andrew, in the meantime, was kept in the shadows, occasionally brought into the limelight when his father or grandfather needed proof of their charitable natures, or as a cautionary tale. He wasn’t sure which role he hated more, although at least when his grandfather showed him to his students as a living example of the laxness of Irregularity laws, he got some fresh air and was permitted to open his mouth.

It stayed shut otherwise, lips pursed as tight as he could get them, as if clenching his jaw would make the appendage melt away. He was only to open it when he was asked a question, or when he needed to eat, which he was allowed to do with his family, so long as his father didn’t have any company.

His mother did, eventually, allow a bit of talking around the house, after reminding his father that, whether Andrew was assigned the job of an Equilateral, a Square or a Pentagon, he would have to be able to speak to his clients. 

They didn’t have much to say to each other, but it was nice to remember what his voice sounded like.

When his teeth grew in, however, he was no longer able to hide his mouth just by closing his lips.

He realized very quickly that he got his buck teeth from his father, but when he mentioned it over dinner, it was taken away from him, and he wasn’t allowed breakfast or lunch the next day, so he learned to stop mentioning the things he noticed. A few remarks or questions weren’t worth the screaming fits and missed meals.

He scribbled down his observations instead, drawing crude pictures, as he hadn’t yet been taught how to write. He kept paper on him at all times and whenever he felt the urge to open his mouth, he instead grabbed a pen.

By the time he was five, he could have filled ten galleries with the pages he’d drawn. His parents, he knew, weren’t fond of his writing, and seemed annoyed at the amount of thoughts and questions that ran through the boy’s head, but so long as he kept his hand over his mouth and hid those awful teeth, they allowed him to scribble away. It wasn’t as if he was disrupting anyone by writing things down, and that was what mattered above all else.

* * *

It took reaching the age of six for people to make any sort of fuss about his existence. His father, he had gathered from eavesdropping, was beginning to realize that he would have to start school soon, and had no idea where to enroll him.

Clarence had, of course, initially tried to enroll him in a school for young Pentagons, but the moment he turned in his son’s medical records, he had been rejected.

The next attempt was to educate him with other Squares, and Andrew was even brought along to this meeting.

“The other parents,” the Headmaster said, watching the little Square scribbling on a piece of paper with one hand, “have concerns.”

“… The boy isn’t Irregular,” was Clarence’s stiff reply.

“I understand that, and you understand that, but we have to keep in mind that we’re dealing with Equilaterals here. Their sons have only just moved up— many have been waiting countless generations for this opportunity, they’re understandably fearful of anything that might jeopardize that.”

Andrew had been dutifully silent throughout the introductions, and he stayed that way, but he pressed his hand even closer to his mouth, until his nails dug in. His pen sunk deeper into the paper and his sketching became faster.

“Believe me, Sir, I understand that his appearance is off-putting, and I can’t speak to his intelligence, but he won’t be any trouble. If he falls behind in class he will fall behind in class, we aren’t asking for anything extra for him,” Clarence looked at his son, who met his gaze only for a nervous second before focusing back on his piece of paper. “To be frank, I wouldn’t complain if he were just placed in the back of the class and ignored, I’m not expecting the teacher to make him into an attorney, I think we can all agree that’s a long shot at best. But he needs to be in _some_ sort of school, or at the very least, out of the house.”

His sketching became even faster, and he tried very hard to keep his hand over his mouth and hold the paper in place at the same time.

“I’m not disagreeing with any of that, Mr. Kryptos,” the Heptagon said, “but… I have gotten several complaints. We both know that his… abnormality isn’t anything that should impact the other students, but I understand the parents’ concerns. Think of your own father, Mr. Kryptos. If there had been any abnormality in your classroom, anything that could have prevented you from being the best attorney you could be…”

Andrew scribbled faster, nails biting into his flesh, staring furiously at the paper.

“He would have fought tooth and nail to get rid of it,” Clarence conceded. “… I understand. Their sons are an investment, I can’t fault them for being protective. If I were in their position, I would feel the same.”

The paper tore.

* * *

“We are still expecting,” his father said, holding his wrist just a little too tightly, “behavior befitting of a Square. I can’t imagine lessons taught by a Specimen should be very challenging, so you should do fine.”

Andrew wasn’t sure if his father wanted a response, so he just managed a stiff nod, and clutched his notepad tighter.

“Despite this… hiccup, the President of the Board has told me that if you perform well enough, you may be placed back into the law program, so I expect you to try.”

“I will.” His voice was muffled from under his hand, but he made sure he was loud enough to be understood. Clarence hated mumbling, and any protests that it was impossible not to mumble with a hand pressed against his mouth had always been ignored.

“Good.” The grip on his wrist slackened slightly. “Have you got your pens?”

Andrew looked up at him in surprise, unsure of what sort of answer he wanted, but nodded cautiously.

“It will probably take them a while to understand you, and I expect you to keep that thing covered. Hopefully you’ll advance past drawings, but at the very least you’ll be able to communicate until they get used to your…”

“Abnormality.” His voice was hoarse.

“Exactly.”

There wasn’t much more discussion before they got to the classroom, although Andrew was surprised when his father patted his shoulder before ushering him in.

The Specimen at the desk, a spindly, haggard thing, examined him tiredly, and he examined the Shape right back, trying very hard to only focus on him, and not the roomful of confused Equilaterals eyeing him suspiciously. After a moment, the Isosceles sighed, and motioned him to the very back of the classroom.

He went silently, hand still over his mouth and, the minute he got to his seat, he pulled out his pen and started to scribble, doing his best to ignore the intensely curious gaze of his new deskmate.

He was so focused on his page, that he didn’t even stop to wonder, until he got home, why an Equilateral would have his side wrapped so tightly in bandages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright next chapter is gonna be a whole lot of fun. Also if we're tallying up "Terrible Parents," I think I hate Clarence the most.
> 
> Also, realized I wasn't clear on ages! Andy is eight by the time he starts school with Bill, they're only a few weeks apart in age, it takes two years to figure out what sort of school to put him in.


	6. Chapter 6

For a guy with such a big mouth, William’s new deskmate sure kept quiet.

It wasn’t for lack of trying on William’s part. This kid was the first interesting thing to walk into the classroom… ever, actually, and William had a million and one questions about why he was here, especially since the current Specimen, (William had stopped bothering to learn their names,) hadn’t actually introduced the guy.

The first time William whispered over to his new classmate to ask his name, though, the poor Square had flinched so violently he’d dropped his pen.

His eye was wide when he cautiously motioned to himself, and William rolled his eye and nodded. “Who else would I be talking to, genius?”

The kid seemed incredibly confused at the concept of anyone wanting to talk to him, but he picked his pen off the ground and scrawled a messy “ANDREW.”

The Triangle’s brow furrowed as he took a minute to try and read his companion’s name. “You know how to write, huh?”

The kid looked sheepish here, concentrating hard before finally writing, “LEARNING. BETTER AT PICTURES.” 

William snickered. “My folks didn’t think it was worth it to teach me, either. I picked it up pretty quickly, anyone with half a brain does. You should be fine.” He could have sworn the kid had smiled a little from under his hand, until looked at the Square curiously. “You ever talk, though? Y’know, with your mouth?”

If there had ever been a smile on Andrew’s face, it wiped away with that question, and he shook his head desperately, writing a huge “X” on his paper, before ignoring William’s whispering for the rest of the day.

Andrew didn’t write back very often after that, so, for the next few months, William got very good at peering over his shoulder and deciphering his constant scribbling. He was actually a pretty diligent notetaker, all things considered. Some things were pretty easy to interpret, he drew shapes pretty accurately, and angles looked like angles, but some concepts were a bit more nebulous. William figured out within the first week that the word “law” was represented with a drawing of a specific, stern looking Square, verbal speech was a large X, and Andrew represented himself with something that almost looked like a pair of teeth. “Irregular” was just a terrible, angry squiggle. Some symbols he was still figuring out, but it was kind of a fun puzzle, and was usually far more interesting than whatever the Specimen was droning on about at the front of the class.

In that entire time, Andrew never spoke audibly. Occasionally, he seemed to disagree with a lesson, or seemed to have an idea, and would scribble faster, rip out pages, and quietly mutter something under his breath that William couldn’t make out, but it almost didn’t matter. It was just reassuring to see someone else with a working brain.

Eventually, Andrew seemed to work up the tiniest bit of courage, and started to draw things that weren’t quite class related. Once, in a fit of pure boredom, William reached over and started doodling on the corner of the page, and after a moment of confused hesitation, Andrew had added onto what his classmate had drawn. Excited, the Equilateral had added even more, and, by the end of the lesson, they had filled three pages with improvised drawings.

They sat together at lunch from then on. They never spoke, and rarely even wrote actual notes to each other, but they both scribbled away, building off of one another’s ideas until Andrew’s little notepad was filled to the brim with chaotic, impulsive nonsense. 

William learned to recognize his own little symbol, a large eye with long eyelashes.

Andrew still avoided eating in front of William, and William pointedly avoided drawn questions about the ever increasing bandages on his side. Whenever the class discussed Irregulars, the notepad stayed depressingly blank.

This dynamic stayed stagnant until the class curriculum moved onto history.

A lot of history in the Plane seemed to repeat itself. At least when it came to working on proofs and calculations, there was some challenge involved, some actual thinking, but with history, it was basically just note taking. There was no room for questions and certainly no room for opinions, and by the time the class got to the fourth hopeless Isosceles rebellion, William had pretty much zoned out, and there were more than two hundred left to learn. Each rebellion was the same, aside from the names and the dates, and each one was defeated quickly. He didn’t see the point in describing how the Circles had squashed each and every uprising, and, from the look on Andrew’s face and the slowed pace of his drawing, he seemed to agree.

Nothing interesting came about until the class started to discuss the Color Revolt.

There wasn’t any discussion of what color really was, or what it was even like. The Isosceles explaining it almost seemed to be trying to piece it out for himself, but the basics were that they were “hues” of some sort, that they could be used to differentiate yourself, and that there had been, long ago, an attempt to label the classes via color, which had gone very wrong. Sight Recognition was no longer needed, Specimens were no longer used, (the Specimen in question had had to read that section of the textbook twice, seeming surprised at his own lesson,) and people started questioning the very structure of society itself. Irregulars began to assert their so-called “rights,” Women began to question their place, an Isosceles somehow painted himself to look higher class and had married a girl born to a Polygonal father and everything was chaos and William was almost engaged in a lesson for the first time since Alan had been replaced—

And then it was over. The girl died and the era of color in the world was over.

And something didn’t sit right.

“… You said she-- said she killed herself?”

It was the first time anyone had ever heard Andrew really speak.

“… Y-yes,” said the Specimen, looking at the Square, who had clapped a hand over his mouth and was currently staring at his paper in horror. Every eye in the room was trained on him— most of the class was, by now, under the impression Andrew was completely mute. “She realized she’d married an Isosceles, and… well—“

“And you’re saying nobody figured it out ‘till then.” When William spoke, the surprise on the Isosceles’ face melted away into exhaustion. William interrupting class was, by now, an expectation.

“Yes, William. It was a series of unlucky circumstances—”

William looked at his deskmate and watched as an expression of confusion fought its way through the panic on his face. His eye met William’s for a second, and it was clear they were thinking something very similar.

“… And doesn’t that seem kinda convenient?”

The Specimen narrowed his eye. “… Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying, there’s a lotta hoops to jump through to get married. Your family line has to go through a bunch’ve inspections, right? And we both know inspectors are real thorough. I mean… hey, your dad’s a lawyer, right?” 

Andrew jumped in his seat slightly when he saw William looking at him expectantly, but nodded slowly.

“So you know law stuff? How many laws did that guy break?”

The whole room was back to staring at Andrew now, and he squirmed in his seat, but, after a moment of thought, scribbled onto a piece of paper and passed it to William.

_> 17\. _

“… Sheesh, really?” When Andrew, still terrified out of his mind, nodded, William cleared his throat and looked up to the Specimen. “He says at least seventeen. So the guy breaks at least seventeen laws and nobody notices until the lady croaks, which is just the kinda thing that would get all the Lines who liked the idea of color to change their minds.”

“It seems like there was an incredible lack of judgement but—”

“And a lotta luck.”

“Yes, the Isosceles was incredibly lucky, but—”

“The Circles were luck-- lucky, too.” Andrew’s voice was still quavering, and this time, only William could hear it. The little Triangle beamed and, making sure he could be heard from the front of the classroom, repeated what the Square had said.

“And the Circles.”

The Specimen looked lost, and extremely frustrated. “How, William, would the Circles benefit from any of this?”

William was very, very aware of the way that Andrew was staring at him, urging him to stop talking, but he refused. “… It’s just what they needed, right? Something to scare their wives? The lady dying was real lucky for ‘em. All of this was. I mean, you think all those Women would’ve changed their minds otherwise?”

One of the boys at the front of the class rolled his eye. “They couldn’t control her _killing herself,_ Cipher _._ ”

“Sure,” the Equilateral shrugged. “I’m just saying is it really worked out for ‘em, that she was that unhappy with the marriage, to a guy who she already knew, who had been rejected by her _dad_ , who knew to ask after her dad died, who she _somehow_ didn’t recognize even though they’d met a bunch before, who she said yes to right after her old man was outta the way, and that every person who coulda stopped all this just… didn’t. And that she ended up dead real soon after. I mean, who knows what woulda happened if she was happy with the wedding?”

“William—” the Specimen started, but he was interrupted almost immediately.

“Of course she wasn’t happy with the wedding! Her dad was a Polygon!” said the boy in the front of the classroom.

“But _he_ was the one who kept rejecting the marriage!” William countered, standing up from his chair. “Not her! And the minute he’s outta the way, she says yes—”

“She was tricked!”

“Did _she_ ever say that? Or did she just end up dead?” 

_“William!”_

“‘Cause all’ve this seems like a whole lotta coincidences, the guy somehow getting his hands on a buncha colors, the lady not recognizing him, everybody just looking the other way as these two broke _seventeen laws_ , her ending up _dead_ — it all worked out real well for everyone who didn’t like color, getting rid of her and making it into this big scandal seems like a real good way to—”

**_“William!”_**

“What’re you saying, this lady _wanted_ to get married to some Isosceles? Why would a Noble wanna marry some Soldier?” The Equilateral at the front of the class was grinning now, as if he’d just set up the winning move in a game of chess.

William stopped for a minute, sputtering, before looking back down at his desk. Andrew, who had been looking at William in awe, had, hesitantly, started to draw again, and he met the other boy’s eye for a fraction of a second before pointedly looking back at what he had drawn.

“Because,” William said, grinning, looking down at the little drawn Line and Isosceles happily holding hands. “They _liked_ each other.”

“WILLIAM. _OUT._ ”

The Specimen pointing to the door, his expression a terrible mixture of fury and fear.

The little Irregular glared for a moment before finally clenching his fists and stomping out of the classroom, pointedly scowling at the boy in the front, who looked incredibly smug.

It had been a while since William had been asked to leave the classroom— three rounds of Specimens, at the least— but he found he still remembered the routine, and he curled up next to the doorframe, muttering angrily under his breath and kicking at the ground.

He only stopped when he realized he had company.

The little Square, notepad still in hand, sat down next to him, and, for the first time since he’d known him, he lowered his hand from his mouth, just a little.

“… He send you out here, too?”

The Square shook his head, still looking incredibly anxious. William looked at him, very confused.

“Then why aren’t you still in class?”

Andrew fidgeted with his hands for a moment, before drawing something on his notepad. “‘Cause you were right,” he finally said, sliding the notepad over to his friend.

William met his gaze, beamed, and added onto the drawing.

They had filled the entire notepad by the time school had ended for the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything always sucks for these kids all the time, I'm allowed one chapter where things are almost okay.  
> Also, I always thought the way color was destroyed in Flatland was awful convenient for a society that canonically routinely kills citizens to keep the status quo.


	7. Chapter 7

School was a bit more tolerable from then on for both of them, and much worse for everyone else.

It started innocuously enough, with occasional whispering at the back of the classroom. It was almost better for the poor Specimen at the front of the room at first. Instead of being a nuisance to everyone else, William was only a nuisance to Andrew, who, for some reason, actively enjoyed the Irregular’s nonsense. Where, before, the Triangle would have stood up and asked inflammatory questions or actively tried to argue with the rest of the class, he would now just whisper to his companion and start a flurry of notes passed back and forth. Still annoying, but certainly better. 

The tradeoff was that, now, Andrew would occasionally speak. It was still muffled, nervous, and nobody but William ever saw the entirety of the boy’s mouth, but instead of one weirdo who liked to ask questions, the class now had two, egging each other on.

The Square was much quieter— he was more easily persuaded to let an issue go and he didn’t probe as much. He seemed, in fact, to fold at the first indication of anger— but eventually William seemed to pick up on this and would continue his line of questioning for him, occasionally aided by a series of notes passed his way. 

So the class was back to William interrupting, except now he was doing it for two people.

The Specimen, who was already on his last leg, ended up separating the two, putting them on opposite sides of the classroom.

This only made things worse.

Now, instead of notes being quietly passed to one another, they were thrown across a classroom. 

Andrew never actually tossed anything back, but he learned to catch paper airplanes and crumpled pages one handed, and the stack of responses that he wrote to give William at lunch covered his entire desk and became distracting.

Once or twice, the exhausted Specimen tried intercepting the notes to read them in front of the class, but didn’t know where to even start with interpreting the drawings.

After a week of this, the Specimen tiredly put them back at the same desk. Keeping them apart wasn’t worth the effort, and the next Specimen would be left with a warning— no matter how stressful the Irregular and the Square made class, do not separate them.

No attempts to contact their parents were made— the school had learned a while ago that telling the Ciphers about their son’s misbehavior didn’t actually help any and only led to William becoming angry and his parents becoming more exhausted, and everybody was too afraid to tell Clarence that his son was doing something wrong. 

Besides, when a Specimen couldn’t control his own classroom, it was a sign that he had outlived his usefulness. Nearly every Specimen decided that the frustration of two rowdy students was a fair price to pay to appear useful to the Board.

The rest of their classmates ignored them whenever possible, but that was pretty much what they were doing before anyway. Their little private lunch table was loud now, filled with excessive talking from William and, eventually, semi-audible talking from Andrew.

It took a while for him to get used to speaking verbally, and he found that he mispronounced a lot. Syllables slurred into each other and his mouth, which had rarely been used, struggled to figure out what shapes made what sounds, especially as nobody else around him spoke the way he did. Like navigating his lack of writing skill with pictures, he navigated difficulties with speech with nicknames, alternatives, and shortened versions of words. Notepad became simply “pad,” Specimen was simply “teacher,” and William, which had far too many easy to slur syllables, was shortened to a clean and simple “Bill.”

(Andrew soon became “Andy,” but that wasn’t due to any pronunciation issues. Bill just said it suited him better, and Bill was usually right about these sorts of things.)

They continued to write to each other as well, and Bill made a habit of keeping pens on hand. Conversations would often consist of verbal speech, written words and coded drawings in equal measures, making them all the more annoying to everyone around them, who never had any idea what they were saying which, to be frank, was exactly the way they liked it.

Their parents had no idea that they were friends and that was also exactly how they liked it. If there was one thing they knew about their families by now, it was that they liked to ruin fun things, and they were sure this wouldn’t be any different.

They were right.

When their fathers first saw them sitting together after school one afternoon, it started a terrible swarm of apologies from both families, who had each yanked their son away from the other. To Albert, who had only seen the other child’s shape, it seemed like his son had somehow manipulated someone far above his station into spending time with him, and Clarence, who did not know Sight Recognition, had not seen Bill’s Irregularity, had only seen his son scribbling in his notepad and lowering his hand to _verbally_ _speak_ to another Shape.

Eventually, through their flustered, panicked apologies, the two men worked out what had actually happened, and almost felt worse.

“Well,” Albert said uncomfortable, loosening his grip on his son ever so slightly. “I, ah… I guess it’s good William wasn’t bothering an… _official_ Square, but he should still know better than—”

“No, _my_ son is the one who should know better. He knows that he’s not meant to show his… if he cannot speak without lowering his hand—”

“I wouldn’t be surprised, Sir, if my son encouraged it, William is… well, I know mischief is in an Irregular’s nature, but for William—”

“He only does it when he talks to me!” Bill said, squirming under his father’s hand. “I don’t _force_ him, I just didn’t say he hadta stop!”

Andy, who had clapped both his hands over his mouth for good measure, nodded up at his father desperately. “It’s just him!” He couldn’t help being muffled, but he didn’t think it was a good idea to show any hint of his mouth, and his notepad didn’t seem like a good option at the moment since his father never seemed to understand his drawings. “I don’t show it to-- show it to anyone else!”

“You shouldn’t be showing it to _anyone—_ ” Clarence hissed.

“We can keep using the p-pad!” Andy said, a note of panic seeping into his voice. His words were muddled at this point, more hard to understand than usual. “I— I won’t talk to him any-- anymore, we can just write—”

“Speak up, Andrew, or don’t—”

“He said we can just write!” Bill said, still clawing at his father’s hand, trying to break out of his grip. 

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Albert said, tightening his grip again and looking over to the other Shape. “I… I’m not sure about your son’s Irre—”

“Abnormality,” Clarence said, cutting off the Triangle. “He is not Irregular.”

“I— I apologize, of course. I’m not sure about your son’s… Abnormality, but I know that doctors have advised William away from anything that might upset his Configuration. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for making your son’s condition any worse, especially if he’s going to be a lawyer someday.”

“Potentially,” Clarence sighed, looking down at his son, who was tearfully staring at the floor. “The Board is still deciding on that.”

“And I hope it goes well. William… frankly, his potential is limited, and I wouldn’t want him to pull your son down with him.”

“ _I’m not_ —”

Clarence’s eye furrowed in something that almost looked like pity. “So he’s not expected to pass Inspection?”

“ ** _Yes, I am_** —”

“It isn’t that severe, Sir, but there’s no possibility of marriage or children, and a low possibility of any decent career. He’s the last of our line, so it’s been… difficult to come to terms with this.” By now, Bill was thrashing to get out of his father’s grasp, screaming, too angry to even yell anything coherent. Albert, all too used to this by now, simply held his arm tighter and raised his voice. “I would hate for any other family to have the same fate.”

“I appreciate it, and I’m very sorry to hear that,” Clarence said. He looked over Albert’s threadbare necktie and bedraggled hat before saying, “You seem like a… _hardworking_ Equilateral, it’s a shame you won’t be able to carry on that legacy.” He sighed, looking over to his son, who had started desperately trying to write notes one handed, tossing them to Bill in a nervous whirlwind, trying very hard to get him to calm down, which almost seemed to be working, as Bill’s red hot-anger had reduced to a quiet smolder. What was on those notes, Clarence couldn’t tell, some inane slurry of half-spelled words and half-drawn pictures. “Put the pen down, Andrew, adults are talking.”

The boy dropped it, terrified, and the notepad too, which only seemed to make the angry little Triangle even angrier.

“ _He was_ ** _helping_** _you jerk—”_ Bill started, before Albert yanked him even closer.

“Circles help me, William, if you don’t learn to _shut your mouth around your betters_ —”

“It’s fine,” Clarence said easily. “Don’t worry, Mr. Cipher, I don’t see this outburst as a mark against you. I understand better than anyone how difficult it can be to reign in a child…”

“Just when I think he can’t get any worse, Sir, I swear—”

“Again, no need to explain it to me. I understand completely,” said the lawyer. 

“That’s good to hear. No offense to anyone who doesn’t get it, I can’t say I blame them thinking less of me for William’s behavior, but it’s nice to talk to someone who understands.”

“No, no, I understand completely…” Clarence said, trailing off as he saw Andy lower his hand slightly and _mouthe_ something to the other boy. “… Andrew. Adults.”

“Sorry, father.”

Clarence raised a brow, looking almost impressed. “Pronunciation was good, Andrew.”

“Yeah, ‘cause he’s _talking more._ ”

**_“William—”_**

“Well he is! That’s why he’s better! ‘Cause I _talk to him!_ ”

“Then we’ll be sure to talk to him more often. Mr. Cipher,” Clarence said, nodding to the other shape. “I appreciate your understanding in all of this mess, and I apologize for Andrew’s behavior. I’ll be sure to let the Headmaster know to separate these two— separate classrooms should do it, and possibly separate lunch hours. Hopefully this won’t have effected your boy’s treatments too severely.”

“Honestly, Sir,” Albert sighed, already dragging his boy away, “I’m not sure we’d even be able to tell.”

* * *

That night, when Bill was locked in his room, he screeched until the walls shook, and refused to stop until the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear to god next chapter is going to be better for these two. I promise.


	8. Chapter 8

Keeping Bill and Andy apart was much harder than anyone anticipated.

When the Headmaster came to class the next day to escort Andy to his new classroom, the boy simply refused to move. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t look at the Headmaster, he simply stared ahead. No matter how loud the he got, Andy continued to stare up at the front of the classroom.

Eventually, the older Shape made a move to grab Andy’s shoulder, whereupon Bill bit him, which was a good window into how the next few weeks were going to go.

* * *

Several combinations were tried in the next month or so— Andrew being forcibly moved, William being forcibly moved, both boys being moved to new classrooms— but nothing seemed to stick. Whenever Bill was moved, he would simply leave the classroom the minute the Headmaster was gone, unless the Specimen in charge had the good sense to lock the door, in which case he would simply screech and throw a temper tantrum until he was allowed out. He would then wander the halls, barging into classrooms until someone dragged him to the Headmaster’s office, where he was usually kept for the remainder of the day.

Andy’s method of resistance was quieter— he would simply stay near the door and refuse to move, writing letters, crinkling the paper as loud as he could and— Circles forbid— showing his mouth to speak verbally and ask, constantly, when he would be allowed back in his “real class” until either his new teacher or classmates had had enough. He, too, was usually sent to the Headmaster’s office, and occasionally he would get to meet up with Bill again, although, more often than not, it simply resulted in Bill being shoved back in his classroom while the Headmaster had a stern talk with an uninterested Andy.

All this ever led to, however, was constantly rotating classrooms, never to them being placed back together.

Eventually, the screaming fits and sitting by the door died down. It wasn’t that they stopped caring about talking to each other, more that they had learned they were scrutinized far less if they kept their heads down. Of course, it didn’t mean they kept their heads down for everything— not a week went by without Bill disrupting class in some way— but they learned to be smarter about when to draw attention to themselves.

Wandering the halls and waiting in the Headmaster’s office didn’t actually get them to see each other any more, after all. Bill was a hell-raiser, but he wasn’t stupid— when he wanted to annoy people for the sake of that, he could do that, but when he was doing something to get results, he only continued if it was working, and throwing a tantrum and running through the school wasn’t really working. 

So instead, the boys got very good at finding hidden corners and tucked away hallways in the school, leaving notes for each other in places nobody else would find them. They never used the same place twice— once a spot had had a note in it, it was compromised, and they each tried to hint in their letters where the next one would be. Their codes evolved, as well, after a few incidents where a member of the school staff found a note and confronted them about it— they had to be unbreakable.

It wasn’t as if they were spilling secrets in those notes, to be honest. A lot of what they wrote to each other were jokes and puns, stories about their week, questions they had for each other. Sometimes they got a bit deeper— Bill venting about a particularly rough treatment or Andy nervously describing being used as a living case study for his grandfather’s law students—but it usually didn’t get quite that private. For most notes, it wouldn’t have really mattered if someone had stumbled across them and figured out what they said.

It really just mattered to them. This was something for them, and only them— something private that they were allowed to have that nobody else could.

Besides, there was something kind of fun about going under everyone’s noses.

Eventually, the hiding spots became a game themselves— less of a hurdle to work around and more of a bonus. Bill started it off, of course, by somehow sneaking a letter into Andy’s bagged lunch. Andy ended up retaliating by sneaking the letter into Bill’s locker, and Bill upped that by shoving the next note into Andy’s desk. This went back and forth for another five months, each hiding place getting more daring than the last, and Andrew thought he’d finally won when he managed to sneak a note into Bill’s cap while he was still wearing it, only for Bill to, (and trillions of years later, he would still be wondering how,) _find his home_ _and leave a note on his doorstop._

Andy was never more grateful to be ignored than when he was as he shoved that note out of his parents’ eyesight.

* * *

It would be another year and a half before they were allowed to speak to each other again.

Well, technically not allowed, but a year and a half until they found a way to get around the ban.

After a year of apparent “good behavior,” Andy was finally allowed to walk home without one of his parents.

(Bill had been allowed to walk home by himself for months now, not because of a reward, but because his parents were exhausted with him, which is why he was allowed to do most things.)

The boys didn’t live close to each other— the Ciphers were badly off, even for Equilaterals, and the Kryptos’ were pretty well-to-do for a family of Squares, so the districts their houses were in were far apart. 

But Bill had been walking home by himself for a while now and his parents had stopped questioning how long it took a while ago— so long as he didn’t get into any trouble that would effect them or their family name, their son could stay out as long as he pleased, and longer. Out of sight out of mind, after all, and they felt they were entitled to a little extra peace and quiet.

Clarence, on the other hand, expected punctuality, but wasn't actually there to enforce it, as he worked late, and Andy's mother, Portia, was never very good with time, so she didn’t really notice when her son came home late.

It was strange how much they had both changed in only a year.

The bandages around Bill’s side had multiplied tenfold— partially from treatments, of course, and partially from older students who thought it would be funny to set those treatments back a few notches. His voice had somehow become shriller and something in his eye had become sharp in a way it hadn’t been before— it had always been calculating, yes, but not so hard.

Andy’s change was more shocking, though— he could speak. More accurately, perhaps, he _did_ speak. He still stuttered quite a bit and his voice was still soft, but when Bill spoke to him, the boy’s first instinct was just to talk back, and not grab for his notepad. He explained, nervously, the first time the walked home together, that without Bill in class to translate for him, or to yell at any Specimens who didn’t accept his drawings for answers, he’d had to adapt.

“I— I’d still like— I still want to write the notes, though, when we’re i-in school…” he fidgeted with his hands, which were over his mouth, and grinned slightly when Bill pushed them from his face— a gesture he’d nearly forgotten in the past year and a half.

“Sure,” Bill shrugged, “And you can still write notes with me outside’ve school, if y’want. Maybe not while we’re walkin’, but y’know. In general.”

The Square beamed. “If Father knew I was— was missing an opportunity to p-practice, he’d kill me. Or you.”

“Or both,” Bill snickered.

“Probably… probably both. O-or he’d kill you, but just… lock me in my—my room until I turned—”

“37! Then he’d start lettin’ you out to meet some girls, so you could have some kids, right?”

Andy’s face screwed up, but he nodded. “Right. Then right back in the room.”

“You think the kids’d be locked up with you, or would they just have t’talk to their dad through the door?”

“De— depends…” 

“Right, right. So if they got mouths, they’re with you, if they don’t, they’re out in the world…” when he saw how downcast his friend suddenly looked at that prospect, and the way his hands were slowly making their way back to cover his teeth, Bill cuffed him on the shoulder. “Honestly, they’ll be lucky if they get locked in there with you.”

“… You think?”

“Sure! You’re just about the only interesting guy I know, I’d rather be locked in a room with you than have deal with a million boring people outside everyday.”

Andy snorted, lowering his hand as they parted for a judgmental-looking Octagon. “And if they got locked in a room with you?”

“I’d teach ‘em to burn the room down. I tell ya I nearly did that yesterday? Ma says I can’t have matches anymore.”

Andrew didn’t blink an eye at that, and, as someone very used to hiding things from his parents, offered some sage advice. “… Hide ‘em under— u-under your bed.”

“Nah, they’re gettin’ smart about that. Need to find a new place.”

“… Drawer.”

“… Already tried that, smart guy—”

“No, I m-mean—” Andy stopped suddenly, holding up a hand and pulling out a familiar looking pad of paper. He sketched for a minute, paying no mind to the bustle of the other Shapes around him, before presenting his work. “Make a f-fake bottom, with— take a— a board or two from the bottom of your bed and unscrew— unscrew it, and then…then put stuff in a drawer and you— you put the boards over it, it… it looks like the bottom of the drawer but you have stuff hid inside.”

“… You’re a genius,” Bill beamed and Andy, who could count the number of times someone had called him intelligent on one hand, beamed back. “How’d you come up with that?”

“Needed a place to hide your notes!”

“… You been keeping ‘em?”

Andy nodded happily. “All in the drawer!”

“What other hiding places’ve you got?” asked Bill, walking a little bit ahead of his friend.

“Inside a ma—mattress is a good one too!” Andy ran to catch up. “Just cut a hole—hole inside and pull some stuff—stuffing out!”

“What d’ya do with the stuffing?”

“I eat it.”

Bill looked at him, scanning his face for any sign that he was kidding. “… You eat it.”

Andy nodded, before explaining that he’d had to get used to eating a lot of weird, inedible junk— after Bill had left, his shield against bullies had also left, and he’d gotten quite used to kids forcing erasers and wads of paper into his mouth to watch the weirdo chew. “I, um… I don’t mind eating weird stuff n-now. Dev— devel— got a taste for it.”

Bill’s eye was glistening and he pulled out a pen cap. “… Can I see?”

Andy only hesitated for a second before nodding. “If I— if I choke, you’ll help, right?”

“The hell kinda friend d’you think I am?” asked Bill, shoving the pen cap into Andy's mouth.

They were only a few blocks from Andy’s house now, so they stopped for a few moments, stepping to the side. Bill watched in rapt fascination as his friend screwed up his face, gnawing on the cap for all it was worth, before finally asking, “You wanna— you wanna see it before I swallow it?”

_“Yes.”_

Andrew smiled nervously and opened his mouth, sticking out his tongue to show Bill the mangled mess of metal that used to be a pen cap.

“That’s so _gross_ ,” Bill laughed, grinning wildly, looking at his friend as if this was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen.

“Yeah?” Andy asked, still sticking his tongue out.

“C’mon, would I lie to you?” Bill asked, still staring at the pen cap in wonder, before going, “… It won’t hurtcha if you swallow it, right?”

“Nah, Jack made me swallow a whole pen yesterday, ink and all,” Andy said through his tongue, and Bill scowled.

“… Want me t’scream at him tomorrow? Haven’t gotten t’scream at anyone in a while.”

“I heard you from—from down the hall a week ago,” Andy said, finally swallowing the cap. 

“Well,” Bill said, stopping the moment Andy’s house came into view. “A week’s a while!”

Andy waved goodbye, making his way to his house, making absolutely sure he wasn’t in earshot of anyone in his home when he told Bill that he appreciated it, but that Bill really, really didn’t have to.

* * *

Sitting in the school infirmary the next day, nursing a rather nasty bite, Jack struggled to explain exactly how he had set the deranged Irregular in his lunch hour off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone wondering about Mrs. Kryptos’ name, she’s mostly named after the Porta Cipher, but also, in part, the protagonist of the Merchant of Venice, Portia, who is, yes, a lawyer. Obviously this Portia could never be a lawyer but I still liked the idea of naming both Andy’s parents after lawyers, one historical and one fictional.
> 
> Admittedly a bit of a throwaway chapter and not something I'm super happy with, but it was fun to write these two talking, and one slightly fluffy throwaway chapter is okay, I think.
> 
> Also, drew some semi-fic related stuff  
> https://www.deviantart.com/cutenerdybean23/art/Human-Bill-and-Andy-832069771  
> https://www.deviantart.com/cutenerdybean23/art/exclusive-cut-configuration-content-831543989


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BABY FIGHT! BABY FIGHT! BABY FIGHT!

It was strange to remember that law school was, still, technically on the table for Andy.

To be honest, being in an Equilateral school shouldn’t have given him that bad of a disadvantage at first, at least that’s what the Board had said. The first few years of school were very similar for any Shape— basic education on mathematics, specifically Geometry, of course, and a few history lessons. Making sure they understood the world around them, how it had always functioned, and how it always would function. True, Andrew wasn’t being taught by the best teachers— a rotation of Specimen teachers was, of course, not the ideal way to be taught, which is why it was reserved for Shapes who wouldn’t have to know much more than how to accurately count money and maybe learn a basic trade, but the _curriculum_ for young Shapes was technically the same. 

This changed, though, as he got older.

By the age of eleven, other Squares were already learning some basics of debate and analyzing the laws of their specific province. Nothing intense, necessarily, and the debates were generally over trivial things, like whether a late or early lunch was more beneficial to a student, but this mock “court” was meant to help these future lawyers understand how present and argue a case.

This was a common enough practice across the board. Equilateral children were scouted for apprenticeships in shops at age twelve to start understanding the ins and outs of the work they would be doing, Pentagons were sent at thirteen to shadow surgeons and get a feel for hospital life— the specifics were different for each profession, but each Shape started to learn exactly what they would be doing with their life before they reached any sort of higher education or entered the working world.

Nobody really realized that he was missing out until he was nearly thirteen. They just hadn’t thought much about it— as far as his parents knew, he had been on good behavior, avoiding Bill and staying quiet in class, and as long as his behavior was decent, he was easy to ignore. It genuinely hadn’t occurred to either of them that he wasn’t being taught any useful law skills until his grandfather mentioned over dinner that someone on the Board had approached him to say that, as far as they were concerned, Andrew was on track to be an attorney, or at least they were willing to give him a shot, considering how much his behavior had improved.

It was a sudden reminder that, somehow, Andrew Kryptos might actually be able to make something of himself.

It was so hard to remember that, looking at him, but the moment they realized their family line might not be completely doomed, they jumped on the opportunity to mold Andy into something… acceptable, at least.

His argumentative skills were lacking, that was obvious from the get go. A lifetime of being told not to argue or ask questions seemed to have sunk in the very moment they realized that would be a detriment as an attorney. 

His grandfather had decided to test the boy on his debate skills at that very dinner, which proved to be a failure when Andrew was unable to argue why he should be allowed a second helping. Somehow, the boy thought “I’m still hungry” was a convincing enough case.

Andrew went to bed hungry and plastered his walls with drawings as he listened to his family discuss what could possibly be done with him from his room. After all, his father said, if the boy was being given the opportunity to be a lawyer, they couldn't let his obvious natural dim-wittedness spoil his chances. The boy would be carrying on the Kryptos family name, it was best to make sure he embarrassed that legacy as little as he possibly could.

The question of how they would shape him into a decent attorney was still up in the air, though. He was not going to be allowed in a class with other Squares until law school officially started, that had been made clear long ago, and tutors for this sort of thing didn’t really exist, as there was never any need for them. When Clarence suggested that his father-in-law could teach him, being a law professor, the man said that between his teaching position and his cases, he didn’t have the time, and the frustration of dealing with such an infuriating grandson at his age would surely upset his configuration, and Clarence immediately relented.

Clarence couldn’t teach him either— he worked late, and having an Abnormal child in his office would likely upset his upper-class clients, and damage his reputation. Andrew was rarely talked about amongst Clarence’s well-off friends, other than the occasional mention to revel at how kindhearted the Square was for raising and dealing with such a boy, and that was how he liked it. Teaching him after school was also out of the question, he was much too tired and was entitled to his relaxation.

His mother was intelligent, for a Line, but she wouldn’t have the memory or mental capacity to teach him much of anything, besides perhaps a few anecdotal stories her father and husband had mentioned about their time in court, so there was no use in discussing her as a potential tutor.

They decided to bring it to the Headmaster, to see if anything could be done. The Heptagon eventually said, after a bit of back and forth with the Board, that a few Specimens may be able to teach the boy some basic laws and debate after school. It wouldn’t be a great education— even the Specimens teaching older children weren’t particularly intelligent and any decent Isosceles had learned not to argue long ago, and Andrew’s own intelligence was still doubtful, but even a few lessons from a Specimen would likely be better than tossing the boy directly into the deep end when he entered law school.

What this meant, though, was staying after school, and neither Andy or Bill was particularly happy about that.

“So how long’re you gonna be staying after school?”

“L—like, how long each day, or how— or how many days?”

“Both,” said Bill, kicking his legs. They were sitting outside a small textile shop, on the stoop— they’d realized a while ago that the old shopkeeper inside was too exhausted to shoo kids away, and it was situated halfway between Bill and Andy’s houses, so it had become their designated rest stop after school.

“Well, um, m-my grandfather said I should start with… with two hours a day after s— after school, every day—”

“What.”

“And we can go up from there. We’re start-starting— we’re starting Monday. ”

_“What.”_

“Yeah,” said Andy miserably, fidgeting with his hands. “They think eventu— eventually, it’ll be four hours a day…”

Bill stared at him. “My folks don’t ask where I go anymore, but I can’t stay out for _four hours_ —”

“I know.”

“I mean, two, _maybe_ , but what am I supposed t’do, just sit there and wait for you? _Every day?_ ” 

“Bill, I _know_. I— I’m trying to figure out how to— how to get out of it.”

“Just say you don’t wanna go.”

“C’mon, you know it isn’t that ea— isn’t that easy. They’re like Treatments—”

Bill started. “They are _not_ like—”

“No, sorry, I didn’t— I mean they… they’re supposed to make me more… normal, like what other— other Squares are—”

“The hell are these lessons even for, huh? You’re doin’ fine in your classes.”

“They’re for lawyer stuff.”

“Right,” Bill drawled, still kicking at the ground, more violently now. “That. They’re goin’ through with making you an attorney, huh?”

“Well, Father says they’ll try.”

“Nice vote of confidence there.”

Andy sighed, grabbing a stick and absentmindedly stabbing at the bricks in the cobblestone. “… I’m pretty… I’m pretty behind. This’ll catch me up, hopefully.”

“Catch you up with what?”

“I— I need to learn to argue and… gather evidence and… stuff about… laws.”

Bill’s eye furrowed. “ _‘Stuff about laws?’_ ” His tone was obviously mocking, but Andy just frowned and chose to ignore it. It was something he had gotten used to doing in his time as Bill’s friend.

“Well, I dunno how— how else to describe it, just… stuff like… terms and… terms and, um, rules? Like, um, like what manslaughter is, or… loit— loitering?”

“… Manslaughter’s in the name, genius. Y’slaughter a man.”

“No but I need to know what… what makes a manslaughter, and— and what makes murder, so if I have a client who’s— who’s accused of murder I can maybe…”

“You think you’re gonna get murder cases?” Bill looked at him doubtfully. “Y’know that even if you end up a lawyer, they’re not gonna give you anything good. Your pops wouldn’t trust you with it.”

“I could!” said Andy defensively. “A— a— Line, maybe, or—”

“Sure, if she’s some Isosceles’ wife. Somethin’ hopeless like that.”

“I could win a case!”

Bill snorted, barely looking at his friend.

Andy stood up then, glaring down at Bill, fists balled tight. _“I’m not stupid.”_

“Never said y’were, but you’re sure acting like it. You really think people’re gonna want you to be a good lawyer?” The Irregular glared right back up at him. “Y’think they’re ever gonna stop meddling and waiting for you to slip up?”

“Just because _you_ can’t be anything when you grow up doesn’t mean _I_ can’t!”

The minute the words were out of his mouth, he regretted it, slapping his hands over his lips so violently it was a wonder he didn’t lose a tooth.

Bill, still sitting on the stoop, just stared at him like he’d been smacked. 

It was no secret that Bill hadn’t been chosen for an apprenticeship. While his Irregularity was smaller now, it was constantly remanifesting, and the less malleable his sides became, the more doctors were convinced it would never be fully fixed. Despite his grades and obvious skill on the sales floor, he had been the only Triangle in his year unable to secure a mentor.

“… You really do have a big mouth, don’tcha?”

Out of the two boys, Andy looked as if he was going to cry more, and he blubbered a shaky, “B-Bill, I—”

“Forget it.” The smaller Shape stood up, brushing himself off and starting home. “Have fun at classes.” 

* * *

The next day, Andrew was amazed at how long and boring his walk home was with nobody to talk to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cheering is less enthusiastic now*  
> B... baby fight?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter probably could have been split in two, tbh, so... sorry for the large update, I guess?

Bill had stopped responding to letters, and Andrew had refused to stop writing them.

The first few— the first half dozen, really— had been garbled apologies, half-written, half-drawn, all smeared and tear stained, that he hadn’t meant it, and he thought it was stupid that nobody had picked Bill for an apprenticeship, and he didn’t really want to be a lawyer anyway and he’d try to find a way to get out of his lessons and— and— and—

And Bill never wrote back. He was getting them, Andy knew— they were always taken from their hiding spots and no staff member had confronted him about them, so it had to be Bill. For all he knew Bill was ripping them up and tossing them out, but there was a _chance_ he was reading them, so he just kept writing.

He wasn’t really sure whether Bill would want to hear about tutoring sessions, but he really had nothing else to talk about. He had thought, (well, hoped, really,) that being tutored might make his family a bit softer, and that he might be able to talk about that, but that wasn’t really the case. They weren’t unhappy with him, exactly, but they certainly weren’t proud. There would be the occasional acknowledgement that he had learned something, at least, but the tone at the dinner table was never one of pride, but surprised relief, and try as he might, it was hard to appreciate the fact that his family was shocked he could remember basic lessons. 

So, with nothing new to say about his family, he relayed what he had been taught after school. 

The letters were jumbled, because the lessons were jumbled. As expected, the Specimens had nearly no idea what they were saying, and the information the Headmaster could give them to teach Andy was heavily filtered and restricted— it wasn’t a good idea, after all, to have any Isosceles picking apart laws any more than was required to teach Andrew. So what the boy was taught was often half-baked, and any questions he had about how laws were developed and put in place, who they benefited and how,the specifics of why they were written the way they were and how, exactly, they were implemented, were all left unanswered, and any attempt to get answers from his father and grandfather was met with frustration, because if he didn’t know something so simple than what was the point of the tutoring in the first place?

He kept trying to get answers though, throwing his all into his lessons for as long as he could. If he improved faster, if he finally acted smart then maybe, maybe… something. He wasn’t sure what he was hoping for, but something.Without Bill, it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do anyway, so he stayed after school and studied hard as could, snuck into his father’s study after classes and devoured the law books he found on the shelf, trying not to bite down on his knuckles too hard or throw the book across the room when he got stuck again, when he didn’t know a word or a phrase and couldn’t figure out how to continue.

He still couldn’t figure out the difference between murder and manslaughter. He didn’t understand the legal jargon and he didn’t understand the terminology and he didn’t understand the logic of half these laws and the only person willing to explain was an exhausted Specimen who didn’t even know what he was talking about himself and could be killed if he said the wrong thing.

It had taken long enough for him to catch on, but Bill had been right, or half-right, at least. Maybe they actually wanted a decent lawyer, but they wouldn’t help him catch up. They wanted it to be sink or swim, and try as he might, Andrew was sinking, hard.

* * *

It took getting to his father’s book on Irregularity laws for him to quit.

He had always known it wouldn’t be a pleasant reading experience, but he hadn’t accounted for how sick it would make him feel.

It wasn’t anything unexpected. Between his grandfather parading him around his law students, discussions with Bill about treatments and whispered conversations between his family that he had eavesdropped on, he knew, at the very least, most of the basics. But there was something so much worse about seeing it in writing.

There was a lot that, to him at least, seemed like speculation. (That was one of the words he’d actually picked up.) Quite a lot of the section focused on the inherent immorality of Irregulars, and it didn’t seem like a fair thing to pass off as law. He doubted, after all, that the lawmakers who had created this book had been able to meet every single Irregular and determine how “immoral” they were, and how they could classify an infant as inherently corrupt he had no idea. There was a discussion of the laxness of Irregularity laws, and a debate over whether the rare Abnormal child should be classified as Irregular regardless of their angles that made his stomach churn, especially once he realized the page had been underlined and dog-eared. 

The specifications of what constituted an “acceptable” Irregularity in their province made him feel even sicker. 

They were a stricter province. Up until about fifteen years ago, any deviation above .35 degrees was potential for extermination. The law had been changed when a relatively respectable Polygon had a son with an Irregularity of .57 degrees, and had appealed to the rest of the Board to not let this tarnish his family name too greatly. An amendment was made that any Irregular born with a deviation under .60 degrees was permitted as acceptable, as long as they underwent regular treatments to lessen the Irregularity as much as possible.

The boy’s mind wandered to Bill’s constantly remanifesting Irregularity, subtracted his friend’s age from when the amendment was put into place, and promptly ran to the bathroom to vomit.

He wasn’t sure what to write to Bill that night, so for the first time in a long while, he skipped out on writing a letter.

The next day, his stomach had settled, at least a little, and he dove into the book again, hoping the remaining pages would maybe even out the debate, or discuss the attorneys who defended Irregulars. Something, _anything_ , that didn’t make him feel like his future would be condemning kids like Bill to death, or at the very least rubbing elbows with people who wrote these types of laws.

All he found were a few short pages practically laughing at any lawyer stupid enough to take an Irregularity case, and an assurance that any such case could be very easily dismissed, so that no Irregular could worm their way out of their initial sentencing.

He refused to stay after school for tutoring the next day.

It was pretty simple, in all honesty, to skip— it simply took reminding his tutor that the Board likely wouldn’t be too impressed with a Specimen that couldn’t keep a single student occupied in a classroom, and how terribly it would reflect on him to fail at teaching the son of such a renowned lawyer, so maybe it was best to keep any absences between them.

Andrew knew it was cruel, and unfair to the Specimen, but after months of fumbling lessons that didn’t seem to be doing him much good, rushed study sessions flipping through books he wasn’t allowed to be touching and complete isolation from the only friend he’d ever had, he was finding it difficult to care. He was tired. It wasn’t as if he was actually planning on turning his teacher in, it was an arrangement that was good for both of them— Andy saw how lost the Isosceles was trying to explain laws he didn’t understand himself. The Specimen could, he was sure, use some time in the evening to unwind instead of taking a whole extra shift.

Besides, Andy figured, his father had used the excuse that he was “entitled to his relaxation” often when he didn’t want to deal with something, and Andrew steadfastly decided that he was entitled to his relaxation as well.

The first day he skipped, he left another note for Bill, saying that he was done with lessons and that he’d be at their usual spot, by the textile shop. Even if he didn’t read the letter, Bill would have to pass by it eventually and maybe they’d talk and he could explain how sorry he was and tell him about how he quit lessons and how being a lawyer was a stupid idea anyway and everything would go back to normal.

But Bill never showed.

After a full three hours of scanning the street and doodling in his notepad, he left. Maybe Bill had skipped class that day, or had been pulled out early for treatments. He was sure to pass by the stoop tomorrow, and they could talk then.

He didn’t show the next day, either, and this time Andy was sure he had been in class— he’d heard the kid yelling from across the hall that afternoon, and he knew Bill’s voice. And sure, some Triangles left school early, but those were only for certain apprenticeships, and he knew Bill didn't have one of those.

… So maybe he was avoiding the place. Maybe he’d found another way home and maybe he was avoiding the shop because he just hated Andy that much and he didn’t even want to pass by their hangout spot. Maybe he’d found his first note and decided to actively avoid him.

Andy sat with that idea for a bit, miserable and unexplainably bitter, before scribbling a note and leaving it on the step. Just a confirmation that he wasn’t going to lessons anymore and, that if Bill found this and wanted him to stay away from their old spot, he could. 

The next day, Andrew found the stoop empty again, aside from a new letter.

_Do whatever you want._

So Andrew stayed, and he kept coming back to the stoop, doing his homework, doodling in his notepad, occasionally bringing a book to read. Occasionally he thought of wandering around, peeking his head into the shops on the street, but he always decided against it— he had to stay here, at this spot, in case Bill ever decided to come back. 

This went on for two and a half more weeks, and Andy was starting to think he’d never actually see Bill again when—

“Chuck says you either gotta come in and buy something, or get off the stoop.”

He flinched in surprise, before turning around to see Bill leaning on the doorframe of the shop, pointedly avoiding eye contact.

He started apologizing before he even knew what he was doing. “B— Bill, I— look, I’m so sorry—”

“You don’t haveta be sorry, you just gotta leave. Know I gave you the okay before, but it’s bad for business.”

Andy shook his head. “No, not— not about that, I mean—”

“I know, I’ve been gettin’ your notes.” He still wasn’t looking at Andy. “Your handwriting got real bad for a while there.”

“I was… I was real nervous to write to you, Bill. My hands were just… they were probably just sh-shaky.” There had been no hint as to whether Bill had accepted said apologies, so the Square decided not to push it.

“Yeah, I’m a pretty scary guy,” the Irregular snorted, rolling his eye. “… Seriously though, you gotta go or Chuck is gonna yell at me.”

“… Chuck?”

“Guy who runs the place. He doesn’t want you hanging around, one freak’s apparently enough.”

He decided not to ask any of the many questions he had, (Bill had a job now?) instead settling for a simple, “… But if I come in, I can stay?”

The boy finally looked at him, eye narrowing. “… You got money?”

“… A— a little?”

“And you wanna buy a textile.”

“… Sure.”

“And you’re not gonna make me talk t’you any more’n I haveta?”

Andy frowned sadly, but nodded. “Okay. N-no talking. I— I’m good at that.”

Bill glared at him for another second before sighing and opening the door, calling to the back of the shop that they had a customer.

The old shopkeeper— Chuck, apparently— peeked his head out excitedly, until his eye rested on Andrew. “… I told you to get rid of him, William. You can’t just let your friend _loiter_.”

“He says he’s got money,” Bill scowled, going back to restocking shelves. “Wants t’buy something. You’re always tellin’ me to try and get more customers.”

The older Equilateral sighed. “I suppose that’s fine, then. What were you looking for?”

Andy, a bit distracted watching Bill, cleared his throat. He didn’t really want to buy anything, but he’d promised, and it certainly wouldn't put him in Bill's good graces to back out now. “Uh… C-cloth?”

“… Yes, but what kind?” Chuck asked, frowning when he heard Bill snicker.

Andy shuffled his feet awkwardly and, anxious, put his hands to his mouth. “Um, I… something c-cheap, I don’t… have a lot…” he pulled out a few measly coins, and Chuck seemed to visibly deflate, taking the coins and counting them.

“… That’s enough for three square inches of muslin or burlap, or a square inch of cotton. Everything else seems… beyond your price range, at the moment.”

“Oh,” Andy said, biting the inside of his cheek. “I guess I’ll… um, maybe the muslin?”

“Black, white or gray?”

“… Black?”

“Alright,” the Equilateral sighed, making his way over to the muslin and cutting off a rather pathetic looking square. He handed it to the boy, then said, “I’d tell you to come back soon, but considering how often you come by, that’s a given.”

“Well, I um, I still need… sewing… stuff… s-so maybe I’ll— maybe I’ll by some tomorrow?” Andy said, and he tried his very best not to be hurt when Bill glared at him. 

* * *

He came by every day after that. He’d pooled his money together— mostly from birthday cards from an uncle he rarely saw— and doled it out, figuring how much he could spend each day to still have money for the next day. He found he had enough to buy something very cheap— a spool of thread, a single needle, or an inch or two of fabric— for about a month. He didn’t need any of that stuff, of course, but if he just stayed in the shop as long as he could, maybe he’d wear Bill down.

The Triangle was stubborn, but that wasn’t a surprise to Andy. He’d known his friend for a long time, and that was to be expected. He had decided by day two that talking to Bill wasn’t the way to go anyway, since he purposefully made himself scarce whenever the Square entered the shop.

But if Bill could be stubborn, maybe it was time for Andy to learn to be stubborn too. He’d apologized a dozen times over by now, in letters and now in person, but he was gonna stop apologizing. If Bill didn’t want to forgive him, then _fine_ , (not fine, not fine at all, but that wasn’t the point,) but he’d at least get the guy to have one more conversation with him to actually tell him that. He knew Bill— at this point, even if a part of him actually wanted to talk to Andy, (and he was desperately hoping that part of him did,) he would be difficult for the sake of being difficult. That’s just how he was. More than anything, Bill was a contrarian.

So he started conversations with Chuck.

It took a few visits, and he didn’t jump at Andrew’s attempts at small-talk right away, but once Andy had visited a few times and genuinely listened to the man sigh about a lack of customers and discuss the differences between extremely similar types of silks, it was like a floodgate had been opened. The older Triangle, as it turned out, really needed someone to talk to. The shop was doing badly, his grandkids never visited, his Square son barely made an effort to keep in contact, his youngest daughter had just been married off to a louse and one of his nephews was an Irregular with an inspection coming up and, Chuck admitted, he knew he probably shouldn’t be so fond of the boy but he really wanted him to pass. 

And Andy was a perfectly sympathetic listener the entire time. He didn’t have much advice to give— he was just a kid, after all— but he nodded along and gave affirmation when he thought it was needed and occasionally left an extra coin on the counter before he left.

Clarence Kryptos had never purposefully taught his son a damn thing, but years of being forced into dinners where the only conversation was about his current clients and how he had gotten on their good side had apparently rubbed off on him. He may not have been the most confident kid, and he may have stuttered through his sympathies and squeaked through his complements, he may have looked down at the floor and fidgeted with his hands, but Andy had subconsciously learned the script and knew exactly how to schmooze. 

And Bill noticed.

He tried to ignore it at first, but it was getting harder and harder to avoid Andy when the boy insisted on staying in the shop longer and longer. Being left out of conversations, even boring ones, was infuriating, especially when he knew he was being left out on purpose, and it was especially hard to handle a few weeks into these visits, when he realized Andy and Chuck were talking about _him_.

“It’s a shame you’re not a Triangle, Andrew,” Chuck said, leaning on the counter, which Andy was happily sitting on top of. 

“That’s— well, that’s the first t-time I’ve ever heard that,” Andy admitted, snorting. “Usually people— people are usually mad I’m not a Pentagon.”

“Hmmm, not sure you’d be cut out for a doctor,” the Equilateral said, “But if you were a Triangle, I’d actually be able to put you to work, instead’ve having you just sitting here.”

“Not that you mind the company.”

“Don’t be so sure about that,” Chuck said, but there wasn’t any sharpness in his voice. 

“… ’S that why Bill’s here?”

“Of course it is. If he was going to sit on that stoop all day, he might as well make himself useful, and he had a good head for sales— what, he didn’t tell you how he got hired?”

“Nope,” Andy said, before leaning over and stage whispering, “We’re in a f-fight.” He cleared his throat. “T-that’s why I don’t talk to him when I’m here. Trying to respect his— respect his wishes.”

He could see Bill pause in the middle of measuring out some fabric before tightening his grip on the measuring tape, and he tried not to grin in satisfaction.

“A bad fight?”

“R-real bad, we haven’t talked for _months_. I—it’s best not to ask him a-about it, he probably doesn’t wanna talk— wanna talk about me.”

He could see Bill crumpling the measuring tape in his hands and trying very hard not to look towards the counter.

“… That long?”

“Y-yeah. I’ve been writing letters, but I— I think he’s been ripping them up o—or something.”

“Well, if those are the letters he stuffs in his pockets after school, I think he’s been reading them on his breaks.”

Bill had stopped even pretending to measure at this point.

“Has he r-really?” Andrew couldn’t stop the hint of smugness from sneaking into his voice.

“He has, since the day I hired him. Now, I can’t say I know what you two are arguing about, and I know that Willam does have a hot head, but—” Chuck started, not unkindly, but Andrew cut him off. His plan was to get Bill’s attention again, sure, but he wasn’t going to lie, or throw his friend under the bus. They had both been bickering at first, sure, but Andrew was the one who had taken it too far, and he knew that.

“No, I said… I said something awful.” 

Bill was looking over towards Andy, who wasn’t meeting his gaze.

The older Shape hummed in surprise. “I see.”

“Yeah. I’m glad he got a j-job, and I’m glad you know he’s sm-smart, but I don’t wanna b-b-bother him. If he doesn’t wanna t-talk to me anymore, that’s fine. I just stay ‘cause it’s a nice sho-shop, and it’s nice to talk to someone.”

“And it’s nice to have a customer, even one who buys his supplies one needle at a time.”

Andrew looked sheepish there. “I don’t get an a—allowance, so I um… I can’t spend a lo-lot at once…”

Chuck looked surprised at that. “… Your family has money, don’t they? I know I recognized your father’s name…”

“They— they do, they just— they don’t really see the point in sp-spending it on me—”

“His dad’s a jerk.” 

It was the first time Bill had entered a conversation between the two of them, and Andy couldn’t help but jump.

“That’s why his parents don’t ever give him anything. ‘Cause his dad’s a jerk.”

“Y—yeah,” Andrew finally said, still looking at Bill, finally smiling a little. “He kinda is.”

“Nice to finally hear your voice again, William,” Chuck called from the counter, “Nearly thought you’d gone mute.”

“You wish,” Bill called back, before looking at Andy. “You’re a real jerk too, y’know that?”

“Bill, I know, a-and if you don’t wanna talk to me—”

“S’not about _that_ anymore, I knew you were real sorry about that since letter three. Hard not to figure it out with all the snot all over it,” Bill said, folding his arms. “You’re a jerk ‘cause you thought _reverse psychology_ was gonna work on me! You really thought if you sat in here and didn’t talk to me at all I’d snap and talk to you back!”

Andy stopped for a minute, considering his response, before finally saying, “… And you _are_ talking back.”

“Which is why you’re such a jerk!” Bill said, voice shriller than usual— but Andy couldn’t find any real malice in it, and he grinned.

“I’d have t’be to— to wanna hang around you.”

Bill’s eye widened, and Andy was sure that he’d already messed it up again, until Bill grinned. “When’d you grow a backbone?”

“Few months a-ago, I guess.”

Bill snorted, and made his way to the counter, where Chuck had already quietly excused himself to do some paperwork in the back. The boy hopped on next to his friend, and said, “I’m still pissed atcha.”

“That’s fair.”

“You ever say anything like that again, and I’m kicking your ass.”

“I ever say any— anything like that again, I’ll kick my o-own ass.”

“You ever say anything like that again, we take turns kickin’ your ass.”

“Deal,” Andy nodded, before clearing his throat. “And I— I know I’m not in— in any position t-to make demands—”

“You’re really not.”

“— But can you… can you not act like I’m st-stupid?”

Bill frowned at him. “I didn’t say y’were stupid—”

“But you said I was— you said I was acting like I was. I’m not an— an idiot. That just— that just means you think I’m stupid, but you knew I’d get— I’d get mad if you said that.”

Bill blinked, then nodded. “Sure. Won’t say you’re stupid.” He paused. “… Can I call you a dumbass sometimes?”

“… Only if I’m being a dumbass.”

“Alright. But a dumbass is different’n stupid?”

“Stupid’s not being a-able to figure out how to s-say words or— or not knowing how the w-world works but… but being a dumbass is like when I eat a tin can.”

Bill laughed. “Alright,” he said, extending his hand. “Stupid’s off limits, but I’m gonna milk this dumbass thing.”

“Fine by me,” Andy said, taking his hand and shaking it.

“… Starting now.”

“What?” Andy asked.

“Yup!” Bill beamed, pulling out a spool of thread. “It’s not a tin can, but it’s the same idea. Missed gettin’ to see you be a dumbass.”

Andy grinned, grabbed the spool, and didn’t think twice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How obvious is it that I had no idea how to end this chapter.
> 
> Half of this chapter was like "Oh shit! I forgot to make Kryptos kind of an asshole!" because, like, the guy IS a future Henchmaniac.
> 
> I feel like I should mention that Flatlanders only reach about a foot in height, so a few inches of fabric isn't....... great, but it's not as pathetic as it sounds.
> 
> Quarantine is tough, I'm at risk so my mood has been... bleh. The one good thing is I've been drawing a bit!
> 
> Some character designs, first row is all canon Flatland characters, bottom row is all my characters!  
> https://www.deviantart.com/cutenerdybean23/art/Shape-Designs-837123366
> 
> Something very sweet and sappy with my humanized designs:  
> https://www.deviantart.com/cutenerdybean23/art/i-am-allowed-to-be-self-indulgent-once-837396449
> 
> Tried to humanize Alan:  
> https://www.deviantart.com/cutenerdybean23/art/Alan-838026037


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, wanted to say I’m really sorry for the wait on this chapter. I haven’t talked about it much, but I’m at a very high-risk group for COVID— I have some chronic conditions that impact my heart and lungs, among other things impacting other body function, so I’m one of those “if I get it I’ll probably die” people. I also live in the heart of Chicago, which, like, isn’t the WORST offender of opening up early for sure, but is still… opening up, which pretty much means I can’t go outside at all lately. The months in quarantine for me have literally been “I go outside once for an hour every three weeks to get medicine and otherwise spend all my tome in a one-room apartment” and it’s made my mental health not… great. I’m doing better now, for the record, and I’m okay! I’m not saying this for pity, but to just sorta let it out and to say that working on fic has fallen to the wayside and I wanted to apologize for how long it took to crank this out.  
> I guess this is also just sort of a heads up, I can’t really promise to stick to any schedule but I’m gonna keep trying to write!

Chuck Voynich had dealt with a lot in his lifetime. A lifetime defined by meager grades, meager sales in a meager shop, a meager love life with a meager wife, and not-so meager children who wanted very little to do with their oh-so-meager father had left him with the hard to shake opinion that his life was just one boring event after another. His life was stagnant, it was dull, it was annoying, and it was going to stay that way. He had gotten used to little frustrations, and he had made his peace with them.

Then he made the mistake of hiring Bill Cipher.

Well, no, not a _mistake_. In all honesty, hiring the boy was one of the smartest things he’d ever done. Within a week of hiring the kid, he’d come up with a way to display their wares that made boring cloth seem far more enticing than it had any right to be, he had an incredible talent for talking someone into something they really didn’t need to buy, and he found the boy was brimming with ideas beyond that. (Doing small clothing repairs and eventually expanding to tailor shop for a boost in business seemed so obvious that he couldn’t believe it had taken so long for anyone to suggest it, or that he hadn’t thought of it himself.) He seemed to be a born salesman, and Chuck was astonished that he hadn’t already been snapped up for an apprenticeship, even with the Irregularity.

By week two, though, he figured it out. The boy was a _pain_.

That seemed to be the trouble with the smart ones, especially the ones who were too smart for their own good. They always had to be right, and they always had to be heard. Chuck didn’t understand it himself— why start arguments, why draw attention to yourself when it was so much easier and so much more relaxing to keep your expectations low— but Bill couldn’t stand to be condescended to about anything. 

They didn’t usually get enough customers for it to be an issue, and the few customers they did get were rarely any higher in rank than a Pentagon, and thank the Circles for that, because this boy could not shut up for the life of him.

Now, this was an apprenticeship, sure, he had even contacted the child’s school and made it official, filed all the paperwork, but not everything in the shop was a learning opportunity— the customers, at the least, certainly weren’t.

Bill didn’t seem to realize that.

At first, when the boy started asking questions of the customers, Chuck was almost proud. An ability to seem interested in the lives of clients was a key part of being a salesman— working retail, for whatever reason, often turned into being an unwitting therapist, and Bill’s ability to sense when someone was having a particularly rough day and to ask guiding questions seemed like ideal customer service. A customer who feels like you care for them, after all, is willing to buy more.

But then he noticed how deep the questions got. It wasn’t just that Bill was feigning sympathy to stressed out Lines with all-too-strict husbands or agreeing with exhausted Physicians about the unfair toll of their job, that would all be fine, even if his jokes sometimes ran the risk of offending. It was more like he was gathering information. Often, Chuck would overhear him prying into details about jobs far above his station, or politics unsuited for an Equilateral’s ears, let alone an Irregular. Chuck couldn’t imagine what William was using all this information for, and he suspected that the boy didn’t have much of a plan himself, he just seemed to like knowing things. 

The problem was, it was dangerous for an Irregular to know much of anything.

He reminded the boy of his job, whenever that happened— he was there to cut cloth and sort money, he was not there to learn about politics or to pry into the affairs of noblemen by tricking their clearly confused wives into giving up details of their home lives. (When Bill retorted that the Lines were very rarely confused talking to him and seemed to actively want a place to discuss their very clear, very detailed thoughts about their home lives, Chuck very nearly gave up trying to break through to the kid.)

Worse still than his manipulative chattiness was when he _couldn’t_ charm a customer. True, Bill was very good at playing to a client’s emotions and getting what he wanted out of them, but there were some customers who just wouldn’t bite. Customers who just found this child and his questions and his big, inquisitive eye frustrating instead of endearing, customers who didn’t want to stoop to talking to an Equilateral longer than they had to, and, worst of all, customers who noticed the bandages tightly wrapped around the child’s angle.

The first time Chuck was praised for taking in a charity case, Bill’s response was subtle. When the customer came in that afternoon reporting that his entire order of fabric was frayed to the point of falling apart, Chuck refunded the order and chalked it up to William being (frankly understandably) distracted by the subtle insults and cutting the cloth incorrectly as a result.

Eventually, though, he noticed a pattern. 

While he had initially been impressed by the child’s self restraint when people yelled at him, and understanding of his snappishness for the rest of the day,it soon became obvious that every customer who crossed Bill would have something go very wrong with their order. It wasn’t easy to prove that he was tampering with the product— while the issues generally rendered the order useless, they weren’t blatant. Cloth cut three inches too short to be usable, four shades off from the needed slate gray, cut into a shape just irregular enough to be hard to measure, but not so irregular that it was impossible for it to have been a mistake. For clothing repairs, there were pant hems too high up to be salvaged and coats too tight to be let out again, and gloves too large to stay on the wearer’s hands.

By the seventeenth angry customer, Chuck confronted the boy.

“I understand that you’re frustrated, William, and I understand that it’s hard to have to listen to them, but I’m the one suffering losses here— these people can afford another order of fabric or a few extra spools of thread, I _can’t_. I’m losing profit, you’re a good employee but—”

“Then _tell them that_ ,” was the boy’s sharp response. It was the day after a treatment. He was thirteen years old and his angle was finally down to a point .2 degree Irregularity and he had split a stitch reaching for a high shelf and had been bleeding through his bandages all afternoon. His side was wrapped in the cheapest muslin in the shop. He had refused Chuck’s offer to call his parents.

“… _I can’t_ ,” Chuck had said meagerly, and Bill had glared at him, nodded, and destroyed three more orders. 

That Friday, he listened to an Octagon lecture Bill on gratefulness, and found himself cutting his order five inches too short.

It was a complicated order. An easy enough mistake to make.

* * *

As Chuck’s hands became… clumsier, he thoroughly expected it to lose him business.

And at first, it did.

The little upper-class clientele Chuck had scraped together through the decades slowly left, tired of multiple trips to get simple orders right. There were better tailor shops out there— more expensive, maybe, but worth it to avoid the glaring Irregular and his suddenly standoffish employer, and to avoid repeated trips.

It wasn’t an easy hit, at first. It wasn’t as if the shop had ever done excessively well, but without the few wealthy customers, there was a noticeable lack of funds coming through the place. Sure, Chuck could tread water well, he’d learned to be meticulous with budgeting and bills before, but it didn’t mean the lack of customers were less concerning.

But, eventually, new customers trickled in.

First was Andrew, fumbling for coins and sneaking glances at Bill as he made conversation with Chuck. The boy never spent much and for a long while Bill didn’t acknowledge him, but it was nice to have someone new in the shop to speak to, even if the old man could tell he wasn’t the person Andrew actually wanted to have a conversation with.

To Chuck’s surprise, the little Square stuck around after he had settled his tiff with Bill. He didn’t always bring money anymore, but he continued to talk to both Bill and Chuck, sitting on the counter, occasionally lugging in a large law book and paging through it or writing something down and tossing a note to the Irregular. Chuck caught a glance at what they were writing every now and then, but he couldn’t begin to decipher it, and it wasn’t really his business anyway. He only asked that they didn’t talk about him behind his back, which Andrew looked horrified by, and had delighted Bill. He made a habit of sweeping more often to clear the floor of crumpled papers, and he stored the sheets away in a small lockbox where he kept all the customer receipts, in case either of the boys ever wanted them in the future.

Then an Iscocles peeked his head in. He didn’t have much money to his name, but he did have a large hole in a ratty coat that needed repairing, and he explained that the owner of the house he served was not particularly interested in paying for a new jacket. After all, his boss had argued, a serf’s work should not be impacted by his comfort. He had scrounged up some meager savings to stitch it up himself, and when he’d heard his employer’s wife complaining about the local tailor shop employing Irregulars, he assumed they would be willing to take his money, since the other shops he’d been to had kicked him out immediately upon seeing his disheveled appearance. “I figured you might not judge,” the serf had coughed, eye flickering to Bill, who was restocking a shelf.

“Judging customers has never done me any good,” Chuck said. He didn’t see the point in denying a paying client, and it wasn’t as if the man was lollygagging in the shop anyway. “Frankly,” he told the Iscocles, who was watching him stitch with interest, “those shopkeepers just sound like bad businessmen.”

Three days later another Isosceles came in with a well worn worker's cap, citing a recommendation from the first. Then another, and another. A handful of Lines who didn’t bother to continue their Peace Cry after entering the shop started visiting regularly, as did a few Shapes who seemed to lean heavily to one side. It was never a steady stream of customers, but they were there, glad to have a place to get decent garments without a suspicious eye on them, and as long as they had money, Chuck took it.

Bill kept chatting with the customers, and the nice thing was that these customers were more likely to chat back. A weary Isosceles soldier or serf wasn’t as likely to see himself that highly above an Irregular, and their wives and daughters were even less likely to be self-absorbed. 

Of course, the Irregulars were almost guaranteed to be happy to talk to the child. Once they got over their astonishment that the rumors were true and there really was an Irregular with an honest-to-Circles apprenticeship, they were often excited to speak with him. Many of them were shy at first, unused to being spoken to or being allowed in conversations, but Bill often plowed his way through their shyness and led the conversation for the both of them. Once he broke through that hesitancy and, frankly, trauma, they often overtook conversations, just happy to have someone to speak to that they could relate to and who wasn’t condescending. Chuck soon became used to overhearing morbid gallows humor about unfair treatments and marriage laws, stories of well-meaning but harmful family members, and ones that weren’t so well meaning, kvetching over shitty doctors and isolation and everything that neither Bill nor the customers had ever been allowed to speak openly about before without strict and severe punishment. They gave Bill recommendations, some small-- carrying a cane on days he was particularly sore-- and some more complex, like how to use a Regular's low expectations against them. 

More than anything, Irregular clientele often gave Bill advice about what to do at his inspection, since it was only a few years away, and when Chuck noticed that the boy wasn’t writing anything down, he tutted at his arrogance and jotted notes down for him. 

The truly surprising thing was that even without their upperclass clientele to harass, Bill still managed to gather information he really shouldn’t have access to. Serfs all too happy to gossip about their Polygonal bosses, maids privy to the opinions of nobles’ wives, and Irregulars from families who ignored them so much they never realized they were eavesdropping. Bill spoke to them all, questioned them all, and learned from them all, and seemed to tuck all that information away for no reason other than to know things he shouldn’t.

Chuck, who had given up on trying to get Bill to close his ears by now, had simply patted him on the arm and asked him to “be careful, William, please,” because the customers may be happy to share, but it wouldn’t be good for anyone involved for a Polygon to learn their dirty laundry had been aired out in front of an Irregular. Bill always rolled his eye and snorted, but Andrew had grinned and told him that he was careful enough for the both of them, and if there was one thing that Chuck believed, it was that Andrew would try his very best to keep Bill out of trouble whenever he could.

* * *

The first time that Clementine Playfair entered the shop, Andrew Kryptos had dropped the piece of cloth he was pitifully trying to wrangle into a tie of sorts and hidden behind the counter. He occasionally peeked over the ledge while she and Chuck bickered over a bundle of immaculately tailored clothes she had brought in, and the teen pointedly avoided the kid staring. When the girl had left and Chuck had asked his favorite loiterer why in the Circles’ name the boy had hidden from a young woman who couldn’t have been more the a few years older than him, he had fretfully explained, “I— I’ve never actually met a-another Abnormal before. I didn’t know what— what to do.”

“You tell her your name, for one,” Chuck had said, rolling his eye as Bill snickered. “And you shake her hand.”

“Dumbass,” Bill had added unhelpfully, grinning and tossing the abandoned mess of cloth towards his friend.

“Are you saying you did— did any better the first time you met another Irregular?” Andrew asked, annoyed.

“Charmed the pants offa him,” Bill said, a bit more sharply, going back to sweeping the floor.

“Oh,” said Andy, and he squirmed a little. “Well, I— I’m not as good with people as— as you.”

“You don’t have to be good with people to be polite,” Chuck said, clapping him on the back. “Just look her in the eye and tell her your name, that’s all it takes. And maybe apologize for hiding from her today, I get the feeling I’m not going to be able to shake that girl off me anytime soon.”

“… Which eye do I look at?” Andy asked, looking worried, and Chuck paused.

“Best to look in the middle, maybe.”

The next time Clementine came back, Andy fought the urge to hide behind something, and approached her, trembling. Both eyes were hard, until she glanced down at his mouth, which had been hidden by the counter in their last meeting.

“I— I’m sorry about last week,” he had said, fidgeting with his hands. He was oh-so-tempted to cover his teeth with his hands, but he figured he really shouldn’t have to in front of someone with two eyes. “I’d never met anyone else with— I mean, I know it’s different, but, um— Abnormal, right? I mean, it’s nice to— Abnormal, you—” he stopped, realizing how jumbled he sounded, and jutted out his hand. “Andrew Kryptos.”

“Clementine Playfair,” she snorted, two eyes crinkling, gripping the hand firmly and shaking it. She looked him down, from eye to toe. “And Circles, you’re a mess.”

“According to my uncle I— um, I have a separated organ, a— a highly placed eye and a— a tilted Shape, so—”

“Oh, no, I meant, like, you can’t seem to get through a sentence,” said the woman, as Bill snorted in the background. “But that too, I guess.”

“… Right,” said Andrew, looking at her awkwardly. “That’s fair.”

“But yes, to answer your question, I’m Abnormal.” Her eyes softened a little, and she smiled. “And it’s nice to meet another Abnormal, too.”

She became a shop regular as well after that, but, honestly, it had very little to do with Andrew at all, and more to do with the fact that Chuck didn’t know a good business deal when it was staring him in the face, which she had to loudly inform him of.

It became a routine, one that Andrew got tired of quickly and that Bill always reveled in, watching this short little line and this frustrated old man bickering constantly.

“You hired Bill,” Clementine would always say, and Bill, more interested in egging on the fighting than offended by the comment, would always agree. “And he can barely hem a pair of pants! I’m offering you full garments at way below what they’re worth!”

“William isn’t illegal to hire,” Chuck would always counter, “bad for business? Potentially! But illegal? No.”

“There are Lines who work in their family’s shops, counting money in the back, keeping stock,” Clem would inevitably point out, and Chuck would throw his hands up and remind her that they were Regular daughters of Equilaterals, not Abnormals descended from Isosceles, that they weren't family, and that none of them were paid for their services anyway. Clementine would point out the quality of her work and how much it would boost business to sell fully tailored garments, would tell him she needed the money to support her father, a former soldier who could no longer work due to his injuries, would remind him that the way he was getting most of his business nowadays was by taking chances on people that nobody else would, and Chuck would nod and agree and sympathize and then say that none of it mattered because he wouldn’t break the law.

This argument repeated ad nauseam for weeks, until finally, Andrew groaned and paged through his law books, trying to find something that could make the shop a bit quieter again.

“It isn’t illegal to ask a woman to-to run an errand, especially if you’re a Shape of a higher— higher rank than her father,” he said in the middle of a particularly huffy conversation, and all three residents of the shop turned to look at him as he peeked over the large tome.

“… I’m not trying to do him a favor, I’m trying to get hired— and he’d be lucky to have me, I’m a hell of a seamstress—”

“And it isn’t illegal to give a Line money,” Andrew said, raising his voice a bit to cut her off, “So— so long as you aren’t paying her for an official— an official job. So she-- she can't be paid for the clothes, but--”

“Well, I’m not going to take the girl’s work without paying her!” Chuck said, looking offended at the prospect. “I may want her off my back, but I’m not a leech.”

“What I’m say—saying is, you can’t hire her, but she can… she can run errands. And you can’t pay her for them, but you can— you can gift her money. Just—”

“… Just don’t connect the two of ‘em,” Bill said, eye wide, then he beamed. “So what we can do is— Clem, you bring in your clothes every week, say Mondays, and then… Chuck, you give her a present on… say, Fridays, just ‘cause—”

“‘Cause of charity!” said Andrew, nodding happily. “For— for your father!”

“Right, nobody’s gonna question the guy who hired an Irregular giving charity to some crippled Isosceles’ kid, seein’ as he can’t support you or your ma anymore—”

“I don’t have a mother, actually, it’s just my father—”

“That’s great!” Bill said, at the same time that Andy was giving his condolences.

“… It’s great that my mother is dead?”

“I mean, for this, yeah!” Bill said, as Andrew looked at him, horrified, and Chuck put his head in his hands. Clementine, on the other hand, simply seemed confused. “You got any siblings?"  


“No, just me,” she said hesitantly, eyeing him. 

“Even better! Nobody’s gonna look twice at a guy givin’ money to an Abnormal kid with a disabled father and a dead mother, and no brothers to support her! Most they’ll suspect is that Chuck’s a little soft, which he is. So you drop off the clothes at the beginning’ve the week, Chuck pays you at the end, and we say it’s for charity so nobody gets arrested.”  


“Also we’re both very sorry your mother is dead,” Andrew cut in, glaring at Bill.

“Yeah, sure, that too,” Bill said.

Clementine didn’t actually seem too phased by his callousness though, instead turning to Chuck, who was rubbing his temples. “… Do you think that would work?”

“Would what work?” asked Chuck tiredly. “I stopped paying attention when William started celebrating your mother’s death.”

“What the boys said, taking my clothes and giving me money later, to convince everybody it’s charity.”

“I… suppose…” Chuck started. “I’m genuinely glad those two worked something out but… there isn’t much pride in what they’re proposing you do, Ms. Playfair.”

She shrugged, already placing one of her jackets on an empty hanger. “People will be wearing my clothing and I’ll be helping to support my father. It would be nice for people to know they’re my clothes they’re wearing, and it would be nice to talk to customers, but there’s pride in what I’m doing, even if you’re all the only ones who know about it.”

“… It’s better than nothing,” Chuck agreed, but he still looked a bit troubled.

“Y— You could stitch your first initial in the tag,” Andy suggested, “really small. People won’t know it’s— it’s supposed to be you, they’ll think it— it stands for Chuck, but you’ll know it’s supposed to be you. So you can feel like it’s yours.”

The older teen smiled, picking up a needle and some embroidery thread. “That’s not a bad idea,” she said, and she took the jacket back and got to work.

* * *

The first time a customer asked about the small pile of money set aside on the counter, Chuck had explained that a girl who frequented his shop had fallen on hard times, and that he had felt it was the charitable thing to do to help the poor child out, since she had nobody to provide for her.

The Shape, one of the few Regular customers remaining, had sniffed lightly, and he glanced at Bill, who was sorting types of thread, and Chuck was very much aware that his reputation amongst the small bit of respectable clientele he still had had finally been cemented as a bit of a bleeding heart.

It didn’t matter, he supposed. Soft, after all, was better than meager. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, because I know how easily this could be read as a crush scenario— Andrew does not have a crush on Clementine. I sort of based this on my experience as a disabled person meeting someone else disabled in public and not knowing how to react because you so rarely meet someone you can relate to. When you almost never see people like you, meeting someone with a parallel experience can be a lot, especially when you’re young, and in my experience, I was often… very awkward about it. I just wanted to be clear about that because it’s based on a very specific Disability Scenario and I didn’t want it to be misconstrued, especially since Clem is like 18-19 and Andy is 13. There will be no romance there, also Andy is gay anyway.  
> Also I might end up adding an unambigious Bill/Kryptos tag because I ended up writing ahead and it ended up a lot less "Well Andy has a crush but who knows about Bill" and more "Bill sucks as a person in every conceivable way but he DOES genuinely care about Andy in his own way and also treats him fine so I guess that's something."
> 
> also some art I never shared!  
> https://www.deviantart.com/cutenerdybean23/art/tranch-838598458  
> https://www.deviantart.com/cutenerdybean23/art/Configuration-Spoilers-I-guess-844430428  
> https://www.deviantart.com/cutenerdybean23/art/Abnormality-841934746


	12. Chapter 12

It would have been nice to say that business started booming immediately after Clementine’s clothes were put on the sales floor, but that wasn’t quite the case. A great deal of the shop’s new clientele didn’t quite have the money or need for a pretty dress or a suitable dinner jacket. Some of her items sold alright, workers caps and hardy gloves were especially popular amongst the serfs, and it certainly helped to generate more income, but it wasn’t the splash hit everyone had hoped it would be.

Sure, occasionally Bill or Chuck would be able to convince a regular to splurge a little— a simple gown for an anniversary present, or a fancy tie for a birthday, and every so often they would be fortunate to have a bride or groom in need of something decent to be wed in, but those were few and far between. 

“What you need,” Chuck had said one afternoon a few months into the business venture, as Clem had picked at her relatively humble earnings for the week, “is to find a market and corner it. You’re making a bit of everything, but most of it isn’t what people need.”

“I can only make so many hats and gloves before I feel like I’m going to lose my mind,” Clem had sighed, and Andy, who had saved up for a pair of gloves in an act of solidarity, cleared his throat from his perch on the counter. “Not that I’m not grateful for the business,” she smiled, andhe grinned back before she continued, “and if it’s what sells, it sells, I just… thought this might go a bit differently.”

“I know,” Chuck nodded sympathetically, “really, I thought it would too. Your work is _good_ , it really is, Ms. Playfair, we just… don’t seem to have the right audience for it.”

“The problem is, nobody who comes through here’s got money for that kinda frilly stuff,” Bill said, picking at the sleeves of an especially nice gown. “I mean, my folks are Equilaterals, and even they only got one nice outfit each, with Iscocles… half’ve their bosses don’t even pay ‘em, they can’t really be buying dresses.”

Clem leaned against the counter, scratching at a blemish in the wood. “Believe me, I’m from an Iscocles household, Bill, I’m aware. The only nice clothing my father and I have are what I make for us. I just assumed… well, some of the Irregulars come from families with money, so I thought…”

“I mean, for one thing, if y’think our families are giving us spendin’ money, you’re being optimistic. Half the customers we get have t’sneak here when their families are outta the house and nab whatever cash is lyin’ around,” Bill scoffed, then said, “and even for the ones that do get spendin’ money, or find a way t’earn some… they’re not gonna buy clothes that don’t fit ‘em.”

Clem blinked. “You can fit into my jackets, Bill, I had you try one on—”

“My Irregularity’s less’n a degree, Clem. I’m almost down to .1 degrees, that’s barely anything. I’m kind’ve a rare case.”

“And I’m not Irregular but, um…” Andy looked a bit sheepish. “I’ve… never found clothes that fit me. That’s why I stuck with the gloves.”  


Chuck was the one to speak now, looking surprised at the prospect. “… Never?”

“Well, no…”

“Y’really think that anyone thinks’ve people like Andy when they’re designing clothes?”

Clem frowned, folding her arms and thinking. “I… I _have_ always made the neckline larger on any dresses I make myself, to fit over my eyes, I just… I didn’t think about other changes others might need.”

“It’s alright, I never would’ve thought _that_ was a problem,” Andy said, shrugging. “So I was only really thinking of myself, too. I think that everyone— I think everyone just sort of knows what they need, and… and we all go from there.”

Clementine, though, seemed deep in thought. “But you’d _want_ a jacket, Andy?”

He looked surprised. “I, um, I can’t pay for one—”

“Hypothetically, I mean.”

“Oh, um… sure? I… my father’s always telling me to look— to look _presentable_ when he has people over, so that might help…”

Bill looked at him in surprise. “… He lettin’ you meet guests now?”

“Not really, or— not more than usual, it’s just… you know, it makes him look _charitable_ to introduce me,” Andy said, rolling his eye, and Bill scowled.

“‘Course it does. Lemme guess, he shows you around for a minute or two, then you’re stuck in your room the rest’ve the night?”

“Mmm-hmm, they give me dinner, though, so it isn’t too awful. I just eat it in bed. It would be better though— better though if I didn’t have to stand there for everyone first.”

“‘Least when Ma locks me up for the night she doesn’t make me go through hoops first,” Bill shuddered, and neither boy noticed how alarmed Chuck looked.

Clementine, however, was too lost in thought to have even heard what the boys were talking about, and just when it seemed like Chuck was about to ask Bill something, the girl turned to him and asked, “Do you think you could get the measurements of some’ve the regulars here?”

Bill blinked. “Like, Regular-type regulars, or Irregular regulars?”

“Irregular regulars.”

“Maybe, but, uh… Irregulars probably aren’t gonna be too fond’ve bein’ measured. Me doin’ it’ll probably scare ‘em less, but I’d need a good reason. We got a few guys in here that only passed inspection by the skin’ve their teeth, practically flinch every time I pull out my measuring tape.”

“Oh…” Clem shifted uncomfortably. “I… hadn’t thought about that.”

“So if I’m gonna ask t’measure ‘em, we’d better make sure I’m offering ‘em something _good_.”

“Especially since, um, a lot of them aren’t allowed outside? So they don’t— they won’t have any reason to wear nice clothes…”

“Oh, I’m not worried about that,” Clem said. She gestured to herself, “You think I have any reason to wear this much lace?”

“Well, you’re allowed outside—”

“Sure, but I only ever go here and to the market, otherwise I’m at home with dad, and I don’t exactly have suitors falling over themselves at the grocer's. I’m not wearing this to impress anyone else, it just makes _me_ feel pretty.” She shrugged. “Clothes can do a wonder for self esteem, and if there’s one thing I know about being Abnormal, it’s you have to build up a lot of your self esteem for yourself. The only person who ever called me pretty was dad, and I’m sure there are Irregulars in the same position.”

Bill raised his brow. “Not sure everyone else is clamoring t’be called pretty, Clem.”

“It’s not about that, really, it’s… doing something nice for yourself. I’m sure you feel better whenever you change your bandages, and it’s not just because they get gross feeling. You probably feel nicer when you’re clean, and you probably know deep down that they look nicer when they’re fresh,” she said. “It’s not about suddenly being handsome, it’s about taking care of yourself, or just… being decent to yourself. Not everyone’s going to want clothing, and that’s alright, but I think… I think people might jump at the opportunity to do something nice for themself.” 

“Well, not sure if I buy that,” Bill said, “but I can pitch it.”

“Try to buy it, William,” Chuck said gruffly. “A customer’s going to be able to tell if you don’t believe in the product.”

“’S’not the product I don’t believe in, Clem’s clothes’re fine, I just don’t buy the idea that wearing a nice coat in your bedroom’s gonna be worth a pile of money. But,” he turned to Clem, “you gave me a pitch, so I’ll give it a try. Can’t say you’ll be able t’get a lot’ve Irregulars t’let me come at ‘em with a measuring tape, but I’ll give it my best shot.”

Andy, who was still paging through a rather large book and taking notes, snorted.

“The hell you laughin’ at?”

“Nothing,” Andy hummed, not even looking up from what he was reading, “I’ve just never seen you say you couldn’t convince someone of something. Just kind’ve— just kind’ve funny that this is the thing that stumps you, is all.”

“I never said I couldn’t—”

“Sure you didn’t. Just that you can’t say— that you can’t say how many people you can get near a measuring tape with.”

“Look, all I’m sayin’ is—”

Andy shrugged. “Just sounds like you’re giving up to me, Bill.” He turned to the older Equilateral, ignoring Bill’s protests. “Hey, um, Chu—Chuck? Do you have another pen? Mine’s just about— mine’s just about dry.”

“Andy, I—”

“I should start charging you for these, Andrew,” sighed Chuck, rummaging through a drawer. “You don’t exactly earn your keep around here, I can’t keep giving you free stuff.”

“I didn’t say I _couldn’t_ , I just—”

“We— well, once I— once I become a lawyer, I’ll help you for free. That should make up for it.”

“I have a son to represent me already, you know,” Chuck said, but handed him a pen. “And I don’t need a whole team of lawyers, it’s not like I get myself into trouble.”

“ _I_ ** _can_** _sell it, all I was sayin’ was—_ ”

“Oh… well, we’ll figure something out,” Andrew shrugged.

Bill turned to Clementine, his annoyance made so much worse at being ignored. “… What d’you need from me? Y’know, who do you want me to get measurements from, only the rich guys, or—”

She looked at him, a bit surprised at his sudden enthusiasm, but cleared her throat. “Ideally, I’d like measurements from a few different Shapes, with varying degrees of Irregularity. Not all people from noble families or anything, I’d like Squares and Triangles too— obviously Irregularity is different for everyone, but if I get a sample size of how it tends to manifest in each Shape, I can start to make some patterns that can be easily let out or taken in on a case-to-case basis.”

“Right, right,” Bill muttered, then grabbed the pen from Andy, who rolled his eye but handed off his notepad as well. “Triangles are more likely t’have the bottom right angle be the most acute, doctor told me that once, but I can’t help ya much with the other shapes. What else?”  


“Oh! Well, I’d like to know what would be comfortable for them to wear, I guess? Do they need clothing that would adjust, do they want their Irregularity covered? Or—”

“Kids’ll need something that adjusts if they’re goin’ through treatments, your Shape’s literally bein’ changed and they won’t wanna buy a million different coats or whatever. They give up on that once your frame sets, so anyone over about seventeen isn’t gonna need anything like that. They probably don’t wanna show off their Irregularity but something breathable so anything bein’ treated doesn’t fester’d be best. Also heard from some adults that sometimes their treated angle gets sore, so good to be mindful’ve that.” Bill answered quickly, never even looking up from the pad. “Don’t worry, I’m writin’ it down. What else?”

“Oh, um— well. Do you have any suggestions?”

His eye flickered up to her, and he squinted. “… Me?”

“I mean, you have experience. I wouldn’t mind picking your brain a little, if that’s alright with you.”

“… Not interested in clothes.”

“Wonderful to hear from someone working in a textile shop,” Chuck muttered as he sorted through another drawer to find a replacement pen and notepad for the ones Bill had taken from Andrew.

“It’d probably be a selling point if people know an Irregular had a hand in designing the clothing,” Clem plied.

Bill studied her for a moment, before leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “What do I get outta it?”

Chuck looked absolutely appalled at that, and slammed the drawer shut. “William, you’re in no position to a—”

“Sure he is.” The response, surprisingly enough, came from Andrew, who had evidently decided he had studied enough for the day and set his law book aside. “Clem’s trying to make clothing for— for a group she’s not part of, Bill’s in the group, he has information _she_ needs about— about what that _group_ needs. If she’s— if she’s going to profit off Irregulars, she shouldn’t make an Irregular give her insider— insider info for free. She can’t profit without him, and either way, he’s providing a ser-service.”

Chuck scoffed. “He’s making conversation—”

“He’s making conversation about something she— about something she needs to start a business, that she can’t function without. She should pay him to measure for her too, or you should add something to his salary, and— and you should give something to anyone who answers his questions and gets measured. ”

“Nice t’see you back on my side,” Bill said, half-way annoyed and half-way grateful.

“I’m not on anyone’s side,” Andy said, putting his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m the only one who can’t make— who can’t make any money off any of this, I’m an impartial observer. I just don’t want anyone in here screwed over.”

“No, Andrew’s right, I shouldn’t just take your ideas for free… Alright, I can’t afford to give you half or anything like that, but what about five percent of what I earn, and some extra here and there for anyone you get measurements from.”

“… Ten.”

“Six.”

“Nine.”

“Just make it 7.5, alright?” Andy said. “That’s what that was gonna end up as anyway.”

“Sounds like a deal t’me,” Bill nodded, but Andy wasn’t finished.

“And give anyone who decides to get measured, um—”

“A discount off custom clothes, or a free accessory, like a bowtie or gloves or somethin’,” Bill suggested, and Clementine nodded.

“That sounds good, if they’re going to help me, they should get something for it.” Clem looked to Chuck. “Does that all seem fair?”

“It seems like it’s going to lose me a lot of money is what it seems like, but it’s fair.”

“You’ll be fine, as long as Bill figures out how to pitch this—”

“Which I _will_.”

“Which he thinks— which he thinks he will,” Andy said, pointedly ignoring Bill’s glare at the word _think,_ “this is… it’s more like an investment, right? You’re losing a little profit today to make more tomorrow.”

Chuck sighed, tapping his fingers against the counter in annoyance, before finally letting out a tired, “Fine. _Fine_ , it’s not like we’ve made much profit off Ms. Playfair’s work so far, we might as well try something new before we ditch the idea entirely. William, go to the back and start writing down questions you think you’ll need to ask customers, and a few notes for Ms. Playfair to get started, I’ll handle the rest of the sweeping for today. We probably won’t be getting any more customers tonight anyway, so we can start measuring customers tomorrow.”

“Sounds good,” Bill said, making his way to the back. On the way, he glared and grabbed the second pad and pen from Andy, who, again, good-naturedly let him take it.

Once Bill had closed the door to the back room, Andy cleared his throat, and started rummaging through the drawer himself for a new pen. “You’re both welcome, by— by the way.”

Clem furrowed her brow, looking at him in amusement. “I’m glad you stopped me from taking advantage of anybody, honestly, but I kind of get the feeling you’re talking about something else.”

“Bill runs off spite,” Andy said, closing the drawer and trying another one. “I’m pretty sure it takes up about half his body. You tell him he can’t do something, he does it, it’s the— it’s the only way to get him to listen. He wasn’t gonna care about measuring anybody until he figured someone thought he couldn’t— I mean, he— I mean he knows me, so he knows I’m bluffing, but it still makes him wanna prove me wrong. So, I got Bill to listen, and it's a good idea, so you'll both make-- make money off it. You’re welcome.” His face lit up and he grinned as his eye ran across a rather nice fountain pen.

“Absolutely not,” Chuck said, closing the drawer. “This is the third one today. I’m sorry, Andrew, but I’m not giving anything else to a loiterer, even my most frequent one.”

Any sense of bravado that Andy had built up seemed to deflate at that, and he let out a soft, “O-oh, right. I— I’l just try to get one of the others back from Bill—”

“Oh, let him have it. If he can get Bill to take instruction, he’s more than earned his keep,” said Clem, eyes crinkling. “After all, he is providing a _service,_ and we all agreed that entitles someone to some sort of compensation.”

Chuck started at her for a moment, and Andy shrunk back a bit further, before the Equilateral finally snorted and reopened the drawer, handing over then pen.

From then on, Chuck always seemed to have a selection on hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I actually god this done in a decent amount of time. I'm the most shocked out of everyone, tbh.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life update stuff at the end for anyone who's curious, since I've been gone for a while. Sorry for how damn long this chapter took, it's been reworked a lot and was originally going to go in a completely different direction... still not thrilled the ending, but I kind of feel like I just have to publish at some point, you know?

Bill certainly wasn’t wrong about customers being hesitant.

The first few times Bill had asked if the customers were in the market for a suit, he was mostly met with confusion, reminders that they had nowhere to dress up for, accusations of being made fun of. 

After he had assured his customers that no, he wasn’t joking, or poking fun at them, there were still quite a few reservations.  


First of course, was the obvious— why spend money for something they would never use? While some Irregulars would buy a hat or a pair of gloves on occasion, something cheap that could be worn out in the cold, or would pick up bits of fabric or sewing supplies, it was more of a gesture towards Chuck than anything else— the appeal of the shop wasn’t the merchandise in it, the appeal was just a place to be able to openly talk, to have an place outside the home that they were welcomed in, and most purchases were more a thank-you than anything else, and to prevent Chuck’s weak protestations against loitering.   


Bill would then turn up the charm, talk them through Clementine’s concept of doing superfluous nice things for yourself, especially if you knew nobody else would do them for you, and would try his very best to get them to consider the idea, at the least.

That wasn’t always necessary, though. While many potential customers had their doubts about whether or not the ordeal would be worth it, there were a decent amount keen on the idea of dressing up, and some, who were less convinced of the prevailing societal expectation that an Irregular should make themself as invisible as possible, thoroughly liked the idea of having something to be showy about.

But that enthusiasm didn’t make the process of actually being measured for a garment any less nerve-wracking. More than once Bill would wrangle an excited customer into agreeing to being fitted for a coat or a gown, only to have them shrink the minute he reached for his tape measurer. A few, so looking forward to a garment or so determined to prove that they could get through the fitting experience made it past the initial sizing up, but often crumbled once the measurements were read aloud and deliberated. The reactions ranged from distant and dazed to irritated and snappish to outright panic attacks that nobody in the shop quite knew how to work through, but the result was nearly always the same. Very few Irregulars could put themself through another Inspection, and a frock or a vest simply wasn’t worth reliving the trauma. Those who made it through measurements without a hitch were outnumbered, by far, by those who were deeply impacted by the whole affair.

It seemed to be taking its toll on Bill as well.

He had never expressed nervousness about his Inspection before— about four years away now, as his fourteenth birthday, just after Andrew’s, was just around the corner— and he wasn’t admitting to any anxiety now, but Chuck had seen the boy paging through all the notes he’d taken for him, reading them during his breaks. While the old Equilateral was glad he had thought to jot down all the advice their customers had offered, it was almost concerning to see Bill actually pour over them. Sure, the shopkeeper had thought the boy had been arrogant not to take the advice from the beginning, but Bill was always arrogant, and seeing him with anything but complete confidence in himself was surprisingly upsetting. His breaks were now fully made up of rereading the same pieces of advice over and over, as if to commit them to memory, and when he asked questions of Irregulars who came in and asked to borrow Andrew’s law books, it no longer seemed like the boy just wanted to be the smartest in the room for the sake of it— it now seemed like he was absolutely terrified of what would happen if he wasn’t.

None of this was made any better when Bill’s bandages, constantly reapplied and maintained for as long as anyone could remember as doctors routinely cut away slivers of his widest angle and prayed it wouldn’t grow back, were tiredly given up on and replaced with a sturdy brace to keep his side straight and his angle in place, which would be regularly tightened until Inspection day. The whole shop was treated to an alarmingly quiet Bill the day after the brace was issued, except for when Chuck caught him furiously ranting to Andrew, when he thought the older Equilateral was out of earshot, that the doctors now had gotten it through their heads that Bill’s stubborn spine was in some way a personal failing, spurred by too-tight bandages that they were somehow blaming him for, or a lack of decent exercise, despite rarely being allowed outside aside from work or school, or leaning to heavily on one side while walking, or bad posture while sitting or simply a manifestation of his apparently subpar moral fiber or — well, according to the boy, they just seemed to be throwing out ideas to see what stuck in a desperate attempt to make it his fault. 

Chuck decided, a week after that bit of eavesdropping and a day after another Irregular had trembled through a measurement that he could not complete and a few minutes after it sunk in how often Bill seemed to flinch away from his own measuring tape, that maybe it was just best to call the whole thing off. They had gotten a few imperfect measurements out of the whole ordeal and were able to cobble together some basic patterns from the unfinished measuring sessions they’d gotten from their customers.

“Ms. Playfair is talented at what she does,” Chuck reassured him, taking the crumpled up tape measurer from him and trying his very best to smooth out the wrinkles. “I’m sure she’ll be able to work with what we have. Besides, I just don’t think it’s been very good for store morale.”

“I’m fine,” Bill snapped, refusing to look at his measuring tape.

“I know you are,” Chuck lied, continuing to straighten out the tape. “I meant the customers’ morale. It’s not good business to traumatize your clientele, and… even if it was, I just wouldn’t feel right about it. I don’t think Ms. Playfair really realized what she was asking, having us measure people who had gone through an Inspection, or asking our younger customers to imagine the experience before their time.”

“Oh,” said Bill, fully aware that Chuck was not only talking about their customers, but happy for the out. “Yeah. I mean, I tried t’tell her, but…”

“Well, it’s another thing you can add to your list of ‘I told you so’s,’ then,” Chuck said, finally pocketing the tape. “I know you keep a list.”

“He does,” piped up Andrew, who was studying in the stock room. “Keeps it under the register.”

“Wouldn’t haveta if you listened to me the first time I told something,” Bill said, leaning against the counter. Since getting the brace, he was unable to hop onto the table to sit.

Chuck laughed and slid a stool over for the kid to sit down on. “You know you’re not right about everything, don’t you? If I always took your advice, I’m almost certain I’d have been arrested at least once by now.”

“And?” asked Bill, plopping down and kicking his legs. “One’ve your kids is a Square right? You’ve got free representation there, gettin’ arrested wouldn’t be that much of a problem.”

“Well, I’d like to avoid trouble with the law until Charles is completely finished with law school at least,” said the shopkeeper, rolling his eye. “And I’m not jumping to get arrested after that, either.”

Bill, however, only seemed to have half heard him. “You named your kid _Charles?_ Geez, didn’t peg you as the type t’have an ego.”

Chuck shot him a soft glare, sighing. “I wanted my family name to move up a caste, lots of families name their highest ranking child after their father. I’m sure that if you were a Square, your father would have at least considered calling you Albert.”

Bill grimaced slightly. “Maybe it’s a good thing I’m Irregular, if it stopped Pops from callin’ me _Albert._ ”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I know my father wanted to name me Clarence, if I’d been a Pentagon,” Andrew piped up again, and the other two could hear the definitive snap of the law book being closed shut, signaling that he was finished studying for the day. He entered the shop area, book under one arm and rubbing the tiredness from his eye. “They figured they’d use it for— for a little brother after I turned out like this, before they decided trying again wasn’t worth the risk.”

“Wasn’t worth the risk?” Chuck asked cautiously, and Andy snorted.

“Well it wasn’t as if it would look particularly good to end up with two of me. One Abnormal kid and no Pentagon was better than _two_ Abnormal kids and no— no Pentagon.”

“Well, there’s no guarantee any siblings would be Abnormal, is there?” Chuck frowned. “What if they ended up with one decent lawyer and one decent doctor, instead?”

“You’d haveta convince ‘em they got a decent lawyer first,” Bill said. “And tryin’ to convince Andy’s old man of just about anything if you got less’n six sides is like talking to a brick wall.”

“I think that brick walls are— are better listeners, honestly,” Andy giggled.

“… So what were you both named after, then?” asked Chuck, obviously uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken and hoping for a lighter topic.

“Not sure,” Bill shrugged. “Know I’ve got a cousin named William, so it’s gotta be some family name, but I don’t think anyone remembers who the first William was, I think Ma’s family just uses it when they run out’ve ideas.”

“Andrew Gronsfeld,” Andy said, “He was a law professor that my fa-father had. Mother said he never really liked him that much, but he— he had a lot of connections, I think father just wanted to f—flatter him.”

“Well, that’s one way to name a child,” Chuck muttered.

“Well, Professor Gronsfeld comes over for dinner sometimes, so I guess— I guess it worked, at least,” Andy said lightly, climbing up onto the counter. “I think I’d feel a lot worse about it if he’d been offended or something.”

“He wouldn’t have any reason to be offended,” said Chuck firmly. “Now, if you’re done studying for now, I want you to help William out with unloading some fabric we had delivered— there’s about half a dozen packages, and I want it done as soon as possible.”

Andy whined. “I just sat down!”

“Which means you haven’t settled in. Besides, you’ve been sitting for the past three hours, I’m sure you’re rested enough.”

“I wasn’t resting, I was studying—”

“Which is exhausting work, I’m sure.”

“But I don’t even work for you!”

“No, but I’m allowed to ask you for favors, aren’t I?” Chuck asked, eyeing the law book next to him. “Unless there’s some type of law against that?”

“… No…” said the Square miserably, scootching off the counter. Bill snickered. Chuck glanced over to him.

“I said I wanted him to help you, William.”

“So?”

“… So it would be nice if you joined him back there.”

Bill rolled his eye but left his stool, making his way to the back.

“You can bring the chair if you need it,” Chuck started, but Bill just waved him off.

Andrew was already rifling through a package in the back, sorting the soft gray fabric by shade. He didn’t look up when Bill shuffled in, but handed him a container.

“… So.”

“… So?”

“So Chuck’s ditching the measuring sessions,” he said, still sorting. He still seemed a bit annoyed, but was cooling off quickly— he always did.

“ _And_?”

“Are— are you alright?”

The little Irregular glared. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Andy rolled his eye but shrugged. “Fine.”

Bill joined him on another container, sorting for a full minute before saying, “It doesn’t bother me.”  
  
“Okay,” said Andy, frowning as he compared two spools of fabric.

“It’s kind’ve a shame that we couldn’t make the measuring thing work, sure—”

“Sure,” the Square agreed, still frowning. “Bill, are these the— the same shade? I can’t tell.”

“That one’s darker,” Bill said, pointing at the fabric on the left, before continuing. “But y’know, I told Chuck and Clem that from the beginning—”

“You did,” Andy nodded agreeably, putting another spool of fabric into a pile, before opening a container of patterned swatches.

“— ‘Cause no Irregular’s gonna wanna work with a measuring tape!”

“Right,” said Andy, who was trying to decide if the swatches would be best sorted by shade or pattern.

“And of course we had people panic—”

“Of course.”

“And of course we got a bunch nervous wrecks outta the whole thing, workin’ themselves up—” argued Bill, who also seemed to be working himself up.

“Right,” said Andy, pointedly continuing to sort and not mentioning how much shriller Bill’s voice was than normal.

“And— and it’s real shit to put Irregulars in that position, making ‘em measure— be measured—”

“Yeah,” he nodded, not mentioning the slip up.

“‘Cause of course most’ve ‘em aren’t gonna go, _‘hey, sure, I’d love t’go through that thing that’s hangin’ over me now—’_ ”

“Or go through it again.”

“Right! And it— it’s not that it’s a bad business idea, it’s just— I mean, we’re lucky we got anyone t’agree to it at all!”

“We are,” Andy said gently. By this point, the Square was sure that Chuck could hear them, even from the back. Bill was full-on ranting now, and while he never really had much of an ear for volume control, that always got exacerbated when he got himself riled up.

“And I told Clem, I told her this wasn’t gonna be worth it, but then you had to act like I couldn’t do it—”

“I did,” Andy agreed, and he stopped sorting. “Bill, sit down.”

“— And I— what?”

“S-sit down,” Andy said, and, to Bill’s surprise, he took hold of Bill’s shoulder and gently pushed him on the ground.

“The hell’re you—”

“Stay here, I’ll be right back,” Andy said, and disappeared through the door, leaving a completely bewildered Bill still plopped on the ground. A minute later he came back, with a tall glass of cold water in his hand, and passed it to the Triangle.

“Drink.”

Bill, too befuddled in the sudden change in conversation to really put up much of an argument, did so. He finished the glass in a few long gulps, feeling himself physically cool down. 

He looked at Andy expectantly. “… The hell was that?”

“You were getting lo-loud,” Andy shrugged, joining him on the floor. “Figured Chuck could hear you, and— and if you didn’t really wanna talk that stuff over with me, you definitely don’t want him to even know about it.”

Bill blinked. “… Oh.”

“Am I right?”

“… Yeah.”

Andy smiled softly. “Always nice to hear that.”

“Alright, but why water?”

“You needed to cool down. Can’t yell when you’re dri—drinking. I mean, you can try, but it’d be real gross.” He snorted a bit, then asked. “… So, d’you wanna talk a—about all that now, or—?”

“No,” said Bill, firmly, and Andy, still on the floor, nodded.

“Okay,” agreed Andy, who looked very much like he was struggling not to press the issue. “Well, uh, still think we should just sit here for a minute.”

Bill sighed, but didn’t move, instead just curling in on himself a little.

“You know, um, Fa-Father has a book about Inspection guidelines,” said Andy after a while, trying to make it sound casual. “It’s on the top shelf so I haven’t— well, I haven’t gotten to it yet, but if you ever wanna borrow it…”

Bill looked at him, and it was very clear that he was choosing his words carefully, trying not to act as if it was something he needed. “… Sure. If he wouldn’t notice it was gone."

“He doesn’t do Irregularity cases, I— I think those books are mostly for show,” Andy said, leaning against the wall. “He sometimes— I mean sometimes he looks up stuff about Abnormalities, but I think he mostly read those books once and— and put ‘em back. Never seen him touch that one. I can just replace it with something else.” 

“… Yeah, wouldn’t mind flippin’ through it then,” said Bill, and Andy nodded. 

“Should be able to swipe it tonight, I can bring it to the shop tomorrow.”

“Alright,” said Bill, who nearly never said thank you if he actually meant it.

“You’re welcome,” said Andy, who was very good at reading between the lines with Bill.

They sorted the rest of the packages from their spots on the ground.

* * *

Clementine was not happy to hear that they had abandoned the plan so early, and the first time the news was broken to her, she was so furious that she left the shop, unwilling to hear Chuck’s timid explanation.

She returned two hours later, looking a bit disheveled, hands filled with paper patterns she had brought from home, and fingers swollen and pricked from furious, thoughtless sewing. 

“Okay,” she said, reaching for the seat Andrew was drawing in, who, too unnerved by the state of the older girl, readily hopped out and pushed it towards her. She tossed the patterns on the counter and sat down heavily, then looked up at Chuck. “Explain.”

“I tried to before,” Chuck said coolly, pushing away some of the patterns, which had enveloped his cash register.

“And I wasn’t in the mood to hear it,” she said, gaze steely. “I went home, worked until I couldn’t hear myself think, and came back. I’m too tired to care, so it’d be better for everyone to explain while I’m still low on energy.”

The old man nodded. “We realized that the measuring sessions weren’t… good for company morale.”

“Company morale.” Her voice was flat.

“Yes, I—”

“So I’m losing money because people weren’t cheerful enough.”

“No, Ms. Playfair it’s not— it’s more than that—”

“Right.” She had never seemed smaller than she had in that moment.

“Honestly, it’s more complicated than what it sounds.”

“Then explain it.”

“Right, well, William was right,” Chuck said awkwardly, very pointedly not looking at the little Shape, who was folding fabric a few feet away. “It ended up being…. unkind… to ask Irregulars to handle measurements. Some were able to muscle through it but… nobody really felt good about the process.”

“So we’re stopping because people were uncomfortable?” Her voice didn’t sound quite as steely anymore, but she certainly didn’t sound convinced.

“It was more than discomfort, Ms. Playfair, it—”

“It was bad,” said Andy, unexpectedly. “We shoulda just listened to Bill, it— it was bad’ve me to try to convince him like that. He knew what he was t-talking about.”

“But… but if we had just spin it another way, or tried another pitch, I— I’m sure we could salvage the work—”

Chuck shook his head. “You haven’t been here for the measuring sessions, dear, we… we really can’t maintain them. It’s not…” he snuck another glance at Bill, who seemed overly-focused on his folding. “It’s not fair to anyone involved.”

Clementine didn’t seem to understand exactly what he was implying, too wrapped up in her need to make this work. “I can come in and do them instead of Bill, we can make it cheaper, cut out the middleman— I can make it turn a profit—”  


“It really isn’t about profit, you haven’t done anything wrong,” Chuck sighed, making his way from behind the counter, and pulling up a seat next to her. “You’re a good seamstress, Ms. Playfair. Bill is a good salesman, I’m a decent business owner, Andrew is a good mediator. We’ll find something that works… we just need to try again. Regroup, think about another demographic or… or business strategy—”

“I _can’t_ ,” Clem said, and for the first time, a sob broke through. “I don’t have the money to keep trying.”

The sob had gotten everyone’s attention. Bill, who had been trying hard not to look like he was listening, had stopped in surprise and confusion, Andrew had flinched, and Chuck had gently taken the girl’s hand.  


“… What do you mean you don’t have the money?” Chuck’s voice was usually soft, but neither boy had heard this gentle a tone from him before.

“I used all our savings on— on _paper_ and _fabric_ and— I can’t— I can’t keep making more stuff that won’t sell or— wait any longer for profit—”

“But… what about the cut Chuck leaves for you every week?” Andrew asked tentatively. There wasn’t another seat nearby, so he’d plopped himself on the floor, on a pile of fabric scraps. “You have to still have some of that—”

She shook her head. “Bills. Between our rent and food, and dad’s pain medication, I— he can’t find work, and we had a bit of money saved, but—” she laughed a little, but there wasn’t any humor in it. “I’ve been taking apart our clothes, to make mock-ups from the patterns I’ve made but— but they’re not perfect, and… and I still haven’t figured out how Irregularity usually presents for anyone but Equilaterals and that’s only because of Bill’s help, we haven’t gotten enough from anyone else to establish a pattern for for, well, my patterns, I— and you’re telling me we can’t get more…” Her head was in her hands now, but she seemed past the point of tears. “I haven’t turned any profit, and I’ve been paying Bill for measurements and giving away accessories that I could have _sold_ because I thought this stupid idea would work. But I don’t have enough to work off of and now I wasted all this time and money—”

“We’ll go back to selling all of your accessories,” said Chuck, gently. He was still holding her hand. “I can start saving you scraps. We usually sell them but we don’t really make much off them, you don’t have any reason to be cutting up your old clothes. Your hats and gloves have always done well, your ties… Focus on those. Small things that don’t use as much material.”

“The patterns I made—”

“I’ll buy them from you.”

She shook her head. “They’re not useful… I don’t want you to just buy anything just because you feel bad—”

“I’m not,” he said, firmly. “We’ll jot down the measurements you’ve made, and draw the basic shapes, so that if we ever want to revisit this project we won’t start from scratch, but I’ll cut up the patterns for now. We can repurpose them into patterns for smaller items, or give them to Andrew and Bill to make notes on, or use the scraps as receipts— I’m just buying paper from you, Clementine, and any business can use paper.”

The young woman looked a little sick at the idea of her patterns being torn up, but the fact that they were going to be copied seemed to soothe her, and she nodded. “… Okay.”

“I’ve already gotten that all written down,” said Bill, who was still hovering near the back of the store, looking very uncomfortable. 

“Okay,” she said again, voice still soft.

“I’m sure we’ll find a way for you to make proper clothes, we can just… hold off for a bit,” said Chuck, who didn’t seem sure if he believed it and Clementine, who definitely didn’t believe it, agreed. 

Eventually, Clem asked, cautiously, wiping her eyes, “They were really that bad? The… the measuring sessions?”

“Yeah, they were really that bad.” When Andrew was the one who answered, Clem started, surprised. “It was… well, it wasn’t fair— wasn’t fair to be putting anyone through that.”

She suddenly looked alarmed, the gravity of what the sessions must have been like finally weighing on her. “Nobody was… forced into measurements, were they? Or— well, you know how Bill talks, sometimes people don’t even realize they’re agreeing to something, I didn’t want— I mean, I kind of wanted that, but not to that _extent_ —”

Bill looked up at that, somehow looking both very proud and very angry, and Andrew just looked angry, but Chuck cut them off before either boy could retort.

“No, no, nothing like that,” the old Triangle reassured. Then he stopped to reconsider. “Well, a little of that, at first, but nothing more than for any other sales pitch. It just seemed like… people weren’t always thinking about how much it would impact them or… they thought they had something prove by going through with it. It was just one of those situations where I don’t… I don’t think it was right to even ask anyone to do what we were expecting of them. It would be like asking your father to go through a battle reenactment. No matter how kindly he was asked, or how much he could gain from it—”  
  
“I’d still punch anyone who even brought it up,” she finished, nodding, then she slumped down in her seat. “ _Circles_ , is that really what we were asking people to do?”

“None of us saw it like that,” started Chuck, but a snort from Bill’s direction made him wince. “Well, William saw it like that, and he got another mark against all of us in his own personal scoreboard but… I don’t think any of us _really_ grasped what this was going to entail. Measuring and Irregulars just… don’t mix.”

At that, Clementine looked at Bill, and worry made its way back into her face. “… Bill, are _you_ oka—”

“He’s fine,” said Andy, right as Bill said the same thing, which only made Clem look less convinced.

“Kinda pissed I’m not gonna be getting any more bonuses,” Bill said easily, while avoiding eye contact, “but other’n that, I’m fine.”

“Why wouldn’t he be?” Andy asked, and the look on his face was clear enough. Drop the subject.

“… Fine,” said Clementine, still uncomfortable but deciding to take Andy’s hint not to press any further. 

After a moment of awkward silence, Chuck stood up and cleared his throat. 

“Right,” he said, pawing through the patterns on the countertops. “Let’s figure out the pricing on these, Ms. Playfair, and see what you’ve earned this week—”

“What I’ve earned?” she asked distractedly, still looking at Bill, who had gotten back to work and was very pointedly avoiding her gaze.

“Accessories,” Chuck said gently. “I told you, Ms. Playfair, we’ve never had trouble selling your accessories.”

“… Oh, right,” she said.

“Do you know how many feet of paper you’ve used for these?” asked Chuck, turning his attention back to the patterns.

“I’m not sure, I probably have it written down at home, but—”

“I’ll measure them,” Andrew said quickly, taking the patterns in his arms and moving towards the table where Bill was folding. They began whispering furiously almost immediately, but when Clementine scootched herself closer to listen in, Chuck shook his head and motioned her closer.

“Just let them be. Andrew knows how to handle William, it’s just kinder to let them work themselves out.”

“Are you sure Bill’s okay?” she asked, also whispering. “Usually when he’s upset, he’s fine with making it everyone else’s problem.”

“When he’s _annoyed_ , Ms. Playfair. Not when he’s scared.”  
  
“Honestly, I wasn’t sure Bill could get scared.”

“And he’s probably glad you think that,” he nodded, sparing the boys a glance then going back to sorting his receipts. “He’s been pouring over Irregularity rules lately.” His voice was still low. “He hasn’t wanted me to notice, so I’ve pretended not to. He’s been talking with Andrew, and that’s enough. Don’t push him.”

“… Knowing Bill, he probably knows that you know,” she whispered back.

“Oh, of course he does, I’m sure of it. He and Andrew probably know what we’re whispering about now,” he said, licking his finger and trying unstick two pieces of paper. “But we can all pretend for as long as Bill wants to.”

She just glanced back at the two boys, and Chuck sighed.

“… He would have started to worry sooner or later,” he said gently. Somehow, the old man seemed to be able to read everyone in the shop, even when they didn’t want him to. “And if he hadn’t on his own, Andrew would have started to fret eventually, and that would have gotten him to start worrying, if only to try to calm Andrew down. You didn’t send him spiraling, Clementine. We might have pushed him a bit early, but…” he sighed, still looking at the receipts for all the accessories sold in the past week. “Even if that’s the truth, you’re still not to blame.”

“Are you—”

“I’m certain,” he said, soft but stern, and she nodded reluctantly. He brightened a bit. “Now, onto your earnings—”

When Andrew came back with the measurements, still out of breath from rapid-fire whispers, his notepad covered in new coded messages in two distinct scripts, Clementine and Chuck glanced at each other and ignored it.

Neither group asked the other about all the whispering. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, hey. Been a while.
> 
> Lots of life updates. First some good news— I ended up moving, which is great! I’m isolating in a much bigger place— I have an office and a bedroom now, and even have room for a couch and a few chairs! My cat’s a lot happier too, which is good. Been able to see my family more often, too, thanks to the move. While I still haven’t managed to find a full-time job, I’ve been selling some crafts at a local store, which has made me a bit of money, at least! I’m still being supported by my parents, but between the crafts, my Etsy shop and commissions, I’ve been making a little money, which has helped me feel a whole lot less useless. Also Trump is gone, so like, the US is by no means fixed at all, but it’s good to not have him in office at least. For fun news kind of related to this fic— got the humongous talking Bill Cipher plush recently, which was neat, he’s taken over my favorite chair. Fun to hear Alex voice some new lines for the bastard, including a line saying that he’s still alive. Weird for that to be made indisputably canon from a plush of all things, but hey, I’m not complaining. Also, I turned 23, so that’s cool! 
> 
> The bad news: I had a health complication and surprise ER visit recently. As a result, I’m having double surgery in February. They’re both pretty minor, but I’ve been sick for a few weeks now and am getting my gallbladder taken out. I’ve also had some more minor issues and flare-ups for the past few months, and while the planned surgery is an outpatient thing, there is a possibility that it will be more intense because of my previous surgeries and may result in a hospital stay. COVID cases are rising and I’m still not really going outside, especially since my state— and the country as a whole, it seems— has designated disabled people under 65 to be the last at-risk group to be vaccinated, below a lot of healthy people who have risky jobs. The government has sort of just silently admitted they really do not care about disabled and chronically ill people, so sorry if some of the bitterness I’m feeling seeps through the stuff I’m writing. I’m probably going to be one of the last in my family to get vaccinated despite being more at-risk than anyone else, so… my mental health hasn’t been amazing and I’m still gonna be holed up inside for a while, I guess, a few months at least. Plus I’ll still have to be careful after getting vaccinated, and, well, y’know how it is. Also there was an attempted right-wing coup on the Capitol, for anyone not from the US, so very, very fun! 
> 
> Long and short of it— I’m okay, but it’s been a rough few months, mentally and physically. 
> 
> The good news for any readers who just want writing updates— I’ve already written about 1/2-1/3 of Bill’s inspection chapter. I know what beats I’m going to hit, I’m just not exactly sure how quick it’ll take me to get there. I’m also writing from a solid outline now, and have written out about 1000 words of random scenes, including a few in the far off future with ol’ Frills, which was fun. Also, while they don’t show up in this chapter, I do have some plans for that one Irregular I drew a while back, so he’s coming, just later than expected.
> 
> So yeah, sorry for the radio silence on my end! I’m doing okay, this past year has just been a lot.


End file.
